WALES, 


AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


BY   MARIA  JAMES. 


INTRODUCTION, 

B)f  A.  POTTER,  D.  D. 

. . _ 

NEW-YORK: 
PUBLISHED  BY  JOHN  S.  TAYLOR, 

BRICK-CHURCH    CHAPEL,    OPPOSITE 
THE  CITY  HALL. 

1839. 


i 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  tho  year  1839,  by 

J.   S.  TAYLOR, 

in  tho  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  tho  United  States,  for  tho 
Southern  District  of  New-York. 


G.  F.  HopKiNi,  Printer,  2  Ann-street. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Wales    .         .     *V       V  '•    .     '    »  "      .         .  47 

Ode,  written  for  the  Fourth  of  July,  1833            .  5 1 
Lines  written  on  a  blank  leaf,  on  the  Life  of  the 

Rev.  F.  Garretson       .      %..       ...  53 

On  seeing  a  Bust  of  the  late  Hon.  Edward  Living- 
ston        .......  54 

The  Picture  —  The  Firefly       .         .         .         .  55 

The  Meadow  Lark 57 

Despondency           ......  58 

To  a  Singing  Bird 61 

The  Humming  Bird 62 

Friendship            .         .         .         .          .         .  64 

The  Whip-poor-will 72 

The  Album 73 

Napoleon's  Tomb 79 

Mrs.  Hannah  Moore 83 

Christmas 85 

Good-Friday        ......  87 

The  Soldier's  Grave 88 

Thoughts  on  parting  with  a  Friend         .         .  91 
Temperance  Ode    .....          .92 

A  Town  in  Dutchess  County         ...  94 
1* 


Ml.89016 


VI  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

To  the  Moon           .         .        Y        «         .         .  95 

Mother's  Lament          .         .         .         .         .  '  96 

Reflections      .      .  '.         .         *      <•         .         .  97 

The  Ethiopian  Lily      .     .  ..."        .         .         .  98 

Eugenius         .         .         ..        .,        .     t    .         .  100 

Spring     -•»,.'      .         •'     ,    .'"       .        Vs  102 

Stanzas 103 

The  Chaplet        .         .         .         .                  .  105 

The  Gem 107 

ToWinnifred       .       ' '^    ' '*»**       .         ,         .  108 

To  Harriet      .         '.<        .'         J         .         +         .  109 

To  Constance     .         •         .          .         .          .  110 

The  Pilgrims  .*         .  .         .         .112 

What  is  Poetry  ?           .'        v        .         .         .  114 
Hymn    .       ..*        .         .         .         •         .         .115 

Memorial    .         .         .                   .         .         .  HQ 

The  Exile      .        ^        M    >  •       •         .         .117 

Ode,  for  the  Fourth  of  July,  1834           .         .  119 

The  Bride's  Welcome     .*     •    .*  ,     J        .         .  120 

Music 121 

Requiem 122 

Elijah           .          .         .          .          .          .          .  124 

To  Hope 125 

New- Year's  Eve          .  126 

The  Young  Soldier           .         .         .         .         .  128 

Home 131 

Summer .  132 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

PAGE 

The  African  Doves       .         ....  134 
A  Poet's  Dream      .          .         .          .         „         .135 

The  Boy's  Lament       .         .         .         .         .  137 

The  Girl's  Lament           *         .         .         ...  138 

Sheep-Sorrel 139 

Old  Gray 140 

The  Harvest  Rain 142 

The  Two  Little  Boys 143 

To  a  Butterfly 144 

Thoughts  on  receiving  a  Blank  Book         .         .  146 

To  the  Evening  Star 147 

The  Wreck 148 

Invocation  to  Sleep      .....  151 

The  Mother 152 

Pride 153 

The  Twilight  Hour 154 

Hymn  for  Sunday  Scholars,  for  New- Year      .  155 

Children's  Hymn 157 

Thoughts  on  reading  a  late  publication             .  158 

Dirge 159 

The  Broom 162 

Epitaph  on  a  Drowned  Boy      .         .         ••«     •  165 

On  Miss  Julianna  Wig-ram    .  166 

0 
On  an  Infant —  On  Mrs.  Wigram     .         .         .167 

On  a  Child  —  On  a  Mother  and  Sister   .         .  168 

• 


INTRODUCTION. 


SOME  years  since,  my  wife,  returning  from  a 
visit  to  a  venerable  friend  in  Dutchess  county,* 
brought  with  her  the  Lines  which  will  be  found 
in  this  volume,  entitled  "  An  Ode,  written  for  the 
4th  of  July,  1833."  She  informed  me  that  they 
were  written  by  a  young  woman  at  service  in  the 
family,  whom  I  had  often  noticed  on  account  of 
her  retiring  and  modest  manners,  and  who  had 
resided  there  in  the  same  capacity  more  than 
twenty  years.  She  also  stated  that  these  lines 
had  been  thrown  off  with  great  rapidity  and  ap- 
parent ease,  and  that  the  writer  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  find  pleasure  in  similar  efforts,  from  her 
earliest  years.  If  the  reader  will  turn  to  this  Ode, 
he  will  not  be  surprised  that  such  information 
should  have  awakened  a  very  lively  interest  in 

*  Mrs.  Garretson  of  Rhinebeck,  widow  of  the  late  Rev.  Free- 
born  Garretson,  and  sister  of  the  late  Chancellor  Livingston  and 
also  of  the  late  Hon.  Edward  Livingston.  Mrs.  Garretson  still 
lives,  at  the  advanced  age  of  eighty-six,  in  full  possession  of  her 
faculties,  and  the  object  of  love  and  veneration  to  all  who  know 
her. 

2 


14  INTRODUCTION. 

my  mind.  It  led  me  to  embrace  an  early  oppor- 
tunity of  looking  over  a  number  of  pieces  with 
which  I  was  furnished  by  one  of  the  ladies  of  the 
family,  and  which  appeared  to  me  to  merit,  with- 
out reference  to  their  origin,  a  wider  circulation. 
These  circumstances  will  account  for  the  connex- 
ion of  my  name  with  the  present  volume. 

It  is  proper  for  me  to  add,  that  I  cannot  claim 
to  have  acted  as  Editor  to  these  poems.  Infirm 
health,  and  an  absence  of  several  months  from  the 
country,  would  have  prevented  me  from  attempt- 
ing to  revise  them,  even  had  I  thought  such  a 
course  expedient.  But  I  have  rather  thought  that 
the  reader  would  desire  to  see  them  in  the  pre- 
cise garb  with  which  they  were  invested  by  the 
writer.  In  that  garb  they  are  accordingly  pub- 
lished, with  the  exception  of  a  few  slight  errors, 
the  correction  of  which  properly  belonged  to  the 
printer. 

Many  persons,  I  apprehend,  will  be  inclined  to 
doubt  the  wisdom  of  drawing  from  their  obscu- 
rity, poems  written  under  such  circumstances. 
By  some,  the  position  of  the  authoress  will  be  as- 
sumed as  of  itself  sufficient  evidence  that  they 
want  merit.  Others  may  hold,  that  even  if  not  de- 
ficient in  this  respect,  they  ought  still  to  be  sup- 
pressed, since  their  publication  can  be  of  little 
service  to  her,  and  may  do  positive  harm  to  oth- 


INTRODUCTION.  15 

ers  in  similar  situations.  If  not  successful  with 
the  public,  this  volume,  which  has  been  to  its  wri- 
ter the  source  of  so  much  innocent  pleasure,  will 
become  (it  is  said)  the  occasion  of  intense  morti- 
fication and  pain  ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  should 
it  prove  eminently  popular,  it  will  be  but  too  apt 
to  impair  the  simplicity  of  her  character,  and 
awaken  aspirations  which,  in  such  a  case,  must  be 
doomed  to  disappointment.  At  best,  it  will  be 
thought  to  hold  out  to  domestics,  and  those  who 
lead  lives  of  labour,  an  example  of  doubtful  im- 
port, and  one  which  is  quite  as  likely  to  mislead 
as  to  profit.  These  objections  were  once  stated 
by  Dr.  Johnson,  in  his  own  sententious  manner. 
"  He  spoke,"  says  his  biographer,*  "  with  much 
contempt  of  the  notice  taken  of  Woodhouse,  the 
poetical  shoemaker.  He  said  it  was  all  vanity 
and  childishness,  and  that  such  objects  were,  to 
those  who  patronised  them,  mere  mirrors  of  their 
own  superiority.  They  had  better  (said  he)  fur- 
nish the  man  with  good  implements  for  his  trade, 
than  raise  subscriptions  for  his  poems.  He  may 
make  an  excellent  shoemaker,  but  can  never  make 
a  poet/' 

Though  one  cannot  admire  the  tone  in  which 
these  objections  were  urged  by  the  Great  Cham 

*  Boswell's  Life,  Lond.,  1799,  p.  123. 


16  INTRODUCTION. 

of  Literature,  (as  he  was  wittily  styled  by  Smol- 
lett,) yet  it  is  due  to  truth  to  admit  that  they  are 
not  without  force.  As  too  often  managed,  such 
undertakings  are  fraught  with  little  advantage  to 
the  party  more  immediately  interested,  or  to  the 
public.  Very  moderate  talent,  perhaps  a  mere 
facility  at  versifying,  because  exhibited  by  one  in 
humble  life,  is  mistaken  for  genius.  Its  possessor 
is  told  that  he  or  she  should  lay  aside  work,  and 
should  aspire  to  the  honours  of  authorship.  Pat- 
ronage is  extended  barely  sufficient  to  tempt  them 
from  pursuits  in  which  they  have  hitherto  found 
an  independent  and  happy  subsistence,  and  to  en- 
gage them  in  one  of  precarious  and  anxious  effort, 
where  they  are  continually  harassed  by  the  feeling 
that  their  habits  and  capacities  are  at  war  with 
their  too  ambitious  desires  ;  and  thus  persons  who 
might  have  been  contented  and  useful  as  artizans 
or  servants,  become  miserable,  and  too  often  con- 
temptible as  authors. 

Very  different  from  this,  however,  has  been  the 
course  pursued  in  the  present  instance.  The  taste 
for  books  and  original  composition  which  Maria 
James  early  manifested,  has  not  been  repressed  ; 
nor,  on  the  other  hand,  has  it  been  encouraged  at 
the  expense  of  duties  which,  however  humble  in 
themselves,  always  deserve  preference,  for  the 
simple  reason  that  they  are  duties,  The  friends 


INTRODUCTION.  17 

who  had  the  discernment  to  appreciate  and  the 
kindness  to  counsel  and  encourage  her,  wisely 
abstained  from  any  appeals  to  her  ambition.  It 
was  her  own  active  and  discursive  mind,  seeking 
to  relieve  itself  of  "thick-coming  fancies,"  that 
first  prompted  her  to  write  ;  and  in  such  cases 
the  effort  brings  with  it  its  own  reward.  Instead 
of  interfering  with  her  customary  occupations,  her 
most  successful  attempts  have  been  made  when 
she  was  hardest  at  work*  —  the  lines  being  com- 
posed as  a  relief  from  the  monotony  of  labour, 
and  retained  in  the  memory  sometimes  for  weeks 
before  they  were  committed  to  paper.  Happily 
for  herself,  she  early  made  the  discovery,  that  the 
highest  dignity  of  a  rational  mind  is  to  be  found 
in  coupling  the  cultivation  of  its  own  powers  with 
the  diligent  discharge  of  duty  ;  and  I  need  not 
say  that,  to  those  who  have  made  this  discovery, 
the  fame  of  successful  authorship  is  but  a  secon- 
dary object.  I  have  no  hesitation  in  adding,  that, 
had  I  found  her  eaten  up  with  the  desire  of  praise, 
writing  only  that  she  might  have  the  means  of 
emerging  from  the  obscurity  of  her  situation,  and 
in  terror  or  in  transport  as  she  anticipated  the 

*  A  lady  once  said  to  her,  "  I  suppose  your  poetry  often  keeps 
you  awake."     "No,"  was  her  reply,  "it  never  kept  me  awake 
an  hour ;  but  it  is  often  busy  with  me  at  the  wash-tub  —  though 
white- washing  is  the  most  favourable  !" 
2* 


18  INTRODUCTION. 

frowns  or  smiles  of  criticism,  I  should  have  de- 
clined any  agency  in  the  publication  of  this  vol- 
ume. I  should  have  felt  that  its  merit,  be  it  ever 
so  great,  had  better  remain  unknown,  than  trans- 
pire only  to  make  her  less  simple  and  less  happy. 
I  believe,  however,  I  speak  but  simple  truth,  when 
I  say  that  she  feels  less  solicitude  in  regard  to  the 
reception  of  these  pieces,  than  is  felt  by  many  of 
the  friends  who  have  interested  themselves  in  pro- 
curing subscribers.  She  has  often  expressed,  in 
her  own  simple  but  forcible  manner,  the  senti- 
ment with  which  Montesquieu  introduces  his  Per- 
sian Letters  to  the  reader :  —  "  Je  ne  fais  point 
ici  d'epitre  dedicatoire,  &  je  ne  demande  point  de 
protection  pour  ce  livre  :  on  le  lira,  s'il  est  bon ; 
and  s'il  est  mauvais,  je  ne  me  souci  pas  qu'on  le 
lise." 

But,  before  dismissing  the  objections  which 
have  been  so  forcibly  stated  by  Dr.  Johnson,  I 
would  add  one  or  two  remarks.  With  a  portion 
of  truth,  they  seem  to  me  to  incorporate  much 
and  pernicious  error.  "  He  may  make  an  excel- 
lent shoemaker,"  says  the  sage,  "  but  can  never 
make  a  poet/'  This  is  said  of  one,  too,  whom 
Mr.  Southey  has  thought  worthy  of  honourable 
mention  in  his  Essay  on  the  "  Lives  of  Unedu- 
cated Poets."  The  remark  appears  to  proceed 
upon  the  assumption  that,  being  a  shoemaker,  he 


INTRODUCTION.  19 

could  not  be  a  poet  —  that  there  is  something  in 
the  very  nature  of  humble  manual  toil,  when  pur- 
sued for  years,  that  disqualifies  the  mind  for  the 
lofty  breathings  of  poetry.  And  this  supposition 
seems  to  be  at  the  bottom  of  much  of  the  antip- 
athy which  is  usually  expressed  in  regard  to  un- 
educated poets.  Men  reason  as  if  God  dispensed 
the  highest  intellectual  gifts  with  a  partial  hand  ; 
as  if  they  must  always  fall  above  that  social  line 
which  separates  the  wealthy  and  educated  few 
from  the  poor  and  laborious  multitude  ;  when  all 
experience  shows  that  these  gifts  are  showered 
often  most  prodigally  among  the  humble  and  toil- 
worn  —  as  if  to  compensate  for  the  want  of  out- 
ward advantages,  by  a  nobler  inward  wealth. 

"  Burns  o'er  the  plough  sung  sweet  his  wood-notes  wild, 
And  richest  Shakspeare  was  a  poor  man's  child." 

And  who  does  not  feel,  that  the  very  fact  of 
such  spirits  rising  from  scenes  which  we  have 
been  accustomed  to  associate  with  little  but  intel- 
lectual sterility,  invests  them  with  peculiar  inter- 
est. We  hail  them  as  glorious  witnesses  to  the 
native  and  irrepressible  power  of  true  genius.  We 
see  in  them  evidence  that  for  some  minds  there 
is  another,  and  perhaps  a  better,  training  than 
that  of  books  and  schools  —  and  that,  before  all 
training,  is  — 


20  INTRODUCTION. 

An  invisible  instinct,  framing  them 

To  poetry  unlearned  —  honour  untaught : 

a  knowledge 

That  wildly  grows  in  them,  yet  yieldeth  crops 
As  though  it  had  been  sown. 

Yet  such  cases  are  commonly  regarded  as  ex- 
ceptions. Manual  labour  was  for  so  many  ages 
the  badge  of  servitude,  and  servitude  was  found 
so  generally  associated  with  intellectual  debase- 
ment, that  we  have  almost  brought  ourselves  to 
regard  that  as  the  order  of  Providence  which  was 
in  truth  but  the  consequence  of  human  oppression, 
and  to  look  on  labour  as  if  it  had  an  inherent  ten- 
dency to  debase  and  deaden  the  mind.  Hence, 
when  we  meet  indications  of  genius  in  persons 
born  to  this  inheritance,  we  feel  as  if  they  must 
be  transferred  to  more  liberal  pursuits,  or  their 
talents  will  be  stifled.  We  ridicule  the  idea  of 
poetical  shoemakers  and  housemaids.  It  is  by 
such  means  that  the  great  mass  of  mankind,  whose 
lot  is  labour,  are  taught  that  they  have  little  to 
do  with  intellectual  cultivation,  and  less  still  with 
polite  letters.  A  large  proportion  of  them,  alas  ! 
are  but  too  ready  to  imbibe  the  lessons,  and  the 
consequence  is,  that  their  lives  are  passed  in  com- 
parative ignorance  and  vacancy ;  while  the  few, 
who  feel  the  yearnings  of  a  nobler  spirit,  renounce 
their  employments, and  thus  contribute  to  strength- 


INTRODUCTION.  21 

en  the  impression  that  a  life  of  manual  toil  is  in- 
compatible with  the  due  cultivation  of  our  higher 
faculties. 

But  what  is  the  fact  ?  The  fact  is,  that  God  has 
bestowed  the  gifts  of  fancy  and  intellect  on  all 
classes  alike ;  and  we  can  conceive  of  no  reason 
for  which  he  did  this,  but  that  those  gifts  should 
be  cherished  and  cultivated  by  all.  The  fact  is, 
again,  that  manual  labour  is  the  portion  of  much 
the  largest  part  of  our  race,  and  we  can  scarcely 
believe  that  this  would  have  been  the  case, had  such 
a  portion  been  inconsistent  with  the  exercise  and 
enjoyment  of  our  nobler  powers.  Instead  of  in- 
tending that  the  man  should  be  merged  in  the  la- 
bourer, the  Most  High  must  rather  have  designed 
that  the  labourer  should  be  merged  in  the  man, 
and  should  stand  forth  in  his  appropriate  dignity. 
On  this  point,  indeed,  he  has  not  left  himself  with- 
out witness.  To  show  that  no  station  is  too  hum- 
ble for  the  display  of  the  highest  gifts,  He  caused 
his  own  Son  to  "  take  upon  himself  the  form  of 
a  servant."  Christ  came  not  to  be  ministered 
unto,  but  to  minister ;  and  when  he  sent  forth 
apostles,  as  if  to  rebuke  that  lofty  spirit  with  which 
men  are  accustomed  to  look  down  on  the  toils  of 
the  poor,  he  selected  fishermen  and  tentmakers. 
So,  in  every  age,  God  has  been  raising  up  one  af- 
ter another  from  the  ranks  of  menial  employment, 


32  INTRODUCTION. 

to  shine  as  lights  in  the  world.  A  statue  was 
erected  to  ^Esop,  (though  a  slave,)  that  it  might 
be  seen  that  the  way  to  honour  was  open  even 
for  those  in  the  lowest  estate.  Terence,  an  Afri- 
can and  a  slave,  won  the  palm  as  a  poet  when 
Scipio  and  Laelius  were  judges.  The  Bard  of 
the  Middle  Ages  was  but  a  humble  retainer  in  the 
halls  of  his  liege  ;  and  though  in  later  times  au- 
thorship has  formed,  in  some  sense,  a  distinct  pro- 
fession, we  have  not  been  left  without  illustri- 
ous evidence  that  the  Muse  still  reserves  some  of 
her  choicest  inspirations  for  the  sons  of  toil.  The 
two  Bloomfields, —  the  ploughman  Burns, —  El- 
liott, the  author  of  "  Corn-Law  Rhymes,"  —  Dods- 
ley,  whose  first  production,  "  The  Muse  in  Livery," 
was  written  while  he  was  yet  a  footman,  —  Phil- 
lis  Wheatley,  an  African  slave  at  Boston,  whose 
poems  were  printed  in  England,  under  the  pat- 
ronage of  several  distinguished  persons,  and  were 
justly  admired  for  their  elegance  and  force,  — 
these  and  many  more  are  instances  in  point.  In- 
deed, in  this  age,  so  remarkable  for  blending  the- 
oretical and  practical  pursuits  —  the  dulce  with 
the  utile, —  we  have  most  striking  proofs  of  the 
folly  of  the  old  notion,  that  literary  excellence  can 
be  attained  only  in  the  deep  seclusion  of  groves 
and  libraries.  Merchants  and  bankers  have  wo- 
ven for  themselves  unfading  wreaths ;  clerks  have 


INTRODUCTION.  23 

retired  from  the  most  mechanical  drudgery  at  the 
desk,  to  delight  the  world  with  the  inimitable  play 
of  a  rich  and  sportive  fancy.  And  he  who  best 
could  tell,  —  Scott,  —  "  regarded  it  (we  are  assur- 
ed) as  the  '  cant  of  sonneteers,'  that  there  is  a  ne- 
cessary connexion  between  genius  and  an  aver- 
sion or  contempt  for  any  of  the  common  duties  of 
life.  He  thought,  on  the  contrary,  that  to  spend 
some  fair  portion  of  every  day  in  any  matter-of- 
fact  occupation,  is  good  for  the  higher  faculties 
themselves,  in  the  upshot.  He  piqued  himself  on 
being  a  man  of  business."*  No  one  can  study  the 
history  of  literature  without  observing  that,  while 
science  claims,  as  it  advances,  a  more  and  more 
exclusive  devotion  from  its  disciples,  —  letters,  on 
the  other  hand,  are  descending  into  the  arena  of 
every  day  life,  and  are  offering  their  honours  to 
ingenuous  minds  of  every  rank. 

With  the  progress  of  popular  education  and  of 
true  Christianity,  a  great  change  must  inevitably 
take  place  in  the  intellectual  condition  of  what 
are  termed  the  working  classes,  and  in  their  re- 
lation to  letters  and  the  arts.  Already  literary 

*  Lockhart's  Life  of  Scott.  See  also,  on  this  subject,  a  de- 
lightful chapter  (xi.)  in  Coleridge's  Lit.  Biographia,  entitled  "  An 
Affectionate  Exhortation  to  those  who  in  Early  Life  feel  them- 
selves disposed  to  become  Authors ;"  also  Talfourd's  Life,  &c. 
of  Charles  Lamb,  vol.  1,  p.  207. 


24  INTRODUCTION. 

effort  gives  occupation  to  a  large  proportion  of 
the  talent  of  the  world.  Classes  that  formerly 
thought  of  nothing  but  politics  or  war,  and  looked 
down  on  literature  as  appropriate  to  the  inmates 
of  the  monastery  only,  now  feel  that  successful 
authorship  can  add  new  lustre  even  to  hereditary 
honours ;  and  while  rising  to  such  a  fellowship 
with  rank  and  power,  it  has  not  failed,  on  the  other 
hand,  to  form  new  alliances  with  the  people.  It 
is  to  be  expecte.d,  then,  that  this  auspicious  revo- 
lution will  continue  to  advance  till  its  influence 
becomes  universal,  and  till  authorship,  even  among 
labouring  men  and  women,  by  becoming  com- 
mon, shall  cease  to  appear  misplaced.  Such  a 
change  will  doubtless  be  long  in  reaching  domes- 
tic servants.  As  a  class,  they  have  little  com- 
mand of  time  ;  a  spirit  of  self-reliance  is  not  cul- 
tivated among  them,  and  their  efforts  at  self- 
improvement  are  too  seldom  encouraged.  It  is 
not  enough  considered,  that  these  efforts  might  be 
so  directed  as  to  conduce  alike  to  the  interest  of 
the  employer  and  the  happiness  of  the  employed. 
The  latter,  in  their  intercourse  with  the  children 
of  a  family,  cannot  but  exert  a  powerful  influence  ; 
and  that  influence  will  be  salutary  just  in  propor- 
tion as  they  are  enlightened  and  refined.  A  taste 
for  reading  and  for  intellectual  improvement  need 
not  interfere  with  any  of  their  appropriate  duties  ; 


INTRODUCTION.  25 

and  if  appreciated  and  encouraged  by  their  supe- 
riors, it  could  hardly  fail  to  render  them  more 
contented  under  the  restraints  inseparable  from 
their  condition,  and  more  anxious  to  merit  and 
secure  confidence.  We  complain,  in  this  country, 
that  this  class  of  persons  are  restless  and  inef- 
ficient ;  and  some  grounds  for  the  complaint  must 
certainly  exist,  so  long  as  they  are  surrounded  by 
inducements  to  adopt  other  pursuits.  Yet  it  de- 
serves to  be  considered,  whether  greater  solici- 
tude on  the  part  of  their  employers,  for  their  com- 
fort and  welfare  as  rational  beings,  might  not 
serve  to  allay  this  evil.  It  is  believed  that  few 
servants  are  treated  as  friends,  who,  though  infe- 
riors in  position,  are  on  that  account  not  the  less 
valued  or  esteemed,  —  without  showing-,  by  their 
increased  zeal  and  fidelity,  that  they  feel  and 
would  repay  the  kindness. 

In  every  attempt,  however,  to  extend  the  bles- 
sings of  intellectual  culture  to  labouring  people, 
two  things  must  be  borne  in  mind  —  one  is,  that 
such  persons  require  to  be  addressed,  principally, 
through  the  medium  of  the  imagination  and  the 
feelings.  It  is  a  sad  mistake  to  suppose  that  mere 
knowledge,  in  its  naked  form,  or  in  its  application 
to  the  arts  of  life,  is  all  that  such  minds  need. 
Books  made  up  of  abstractions,  or  filled  with  the 
hard  and  dry  details  of  physical  science,  will  never 
3 


20  INTRODUCTION. 

be  found  capable  of  interesting  those  who  are  un- 
accustomed to  reflect  —  and  who  feel  but  slightly 
the  promptings  of  curiosity.  The  contents  of 
every  village  Library,  and  of  every  book-shelf  in 
our  kitchens  and  farm-houses,  might  teach  us  the 
error  of  modern  systems  of  Public  Instruction  in 
this  respect,  and  show  the  necessity  of  employing 
works  which  speak  to  the  understanding  through 
the  fancy  and  the  affections.  And  hence  the  high 
place  which  Poetry  must  always  occupy  in  the 
literature  of  the  great  mass  of  the  people.  "  The 
poet?  says  Sir  Philip  Sydney,*  "  is  your  right  popu- 
lar philosopher — He  yieldeth  to  the  powers  of 
the  mind  an  image  of  that  whereof  the  philosopher 
bestoweth  but  a  wordish  description,  which  doth 
neither  strike,  pierce,  nor  possess  the  soul  so  much 
as  that  other  doth."  Indeed  before  we  ridicule 
the  cultivation  among  the  poor  of  a  taste  for  this 
noblest  of  arts,  we  should  consider  that  a  large 
portion  of  our  bibles  is  poetry,  and  that  this 
medium  of  communication  with  mankind  could 
hardly  have  been  adopted  by  Infinite  Wisdom, 
without  a  good  reason.  "  Certainly,"  adds  Sydney, 
"  in  another  place,  our  Saviour,  Christ,  could  as 
wrell  have  given  the  moral  common  places  of  un- 
charitableness  and  humbleness,  as  the  Divine  nar- 

*  Defence  of  Poesy. 

•  .'.. 


INTRODUCTION.  27 

ration  of  Dives  and  Lazarus  —  or  of  disobedience 
and  mercy,  as  the  heavenly  discourse  of  the  lost 
child  and  the  gracious  father  —  but  that  his 
thorough  searching  wisdom  knew  the  estate  of 
Div^s  burning  in  Hell,  and  of  Lazarus  in  Abra- 
ham's bosom,  would  more  constantly,  as  it  were, 
inhabit  both  the  memory  and  judgement.  Truly 
for  myself  (meseems)  I  see  before  me  the  lost 
child's  disdainful  prodigality  turned  to  envy  a 
swine's  dinner,  which  by  the  learned  divines  are 
thought  not  historical  acts,  but  instructive  para- 
bles." 

It  should  also  be  considered,  that  in  proportion 
as  the  minds  of  a  people  are  cultivated,  they  will 
be  incited  to  original  composition.  Montesinos,  in 
one  of  Southey's  Colloquies  on  the  Progress  and 
Prospects  of  Society,  is  made  to  express  the 
opinion,  that  in  consequence  of  education  and  the 
general  diffusion  of  cheap  books,  more  poems  will 
be  written,  but  fewer  published  ;  "  because  both 
in  poetry  and  the  kindred  art  of  painting,  imitative 
power  will  be  so  commonly  called  forth,  that  it 
will  no  longer  be  mistaken  for  an  indication  of 
genius."  At  present  one  who  steps  forth  from 
humble  life  as  an  author,  has  to  encounter  on  one 
hand  the  shafts  of  ridicule,  —  on  the  other,  the 
incense  of  misplaced  and  extravagant  praise. 
When  the  talent  for  writing  shall  become  so 


28  INTRODUCTION. 

common  in  any  class  as  to  excite  no  special  won- 
der, minds  will  then  be  left  to  act  "  at  their  own 
sweet  will."  No  misjudging  friend  will  be  at 
hand  to  overstimulate  or  to  repress  too  harshly. 
The  neglected  but  most  important  truth  that 
every  situation  in  life  affords  opportunities  for 
mental  improvement,  and  that  humble  life  is  pe- 
culiarly favourable  to  the  study  and  delineation 
of  nature,  and  of  many  of  the  workings  of  the 
human  heart,  —  this  truth  will  be  appreciated. 
Whatever  is  published  will  be  subjected  to  the 
common  ordeal  of  criticism,  and  will  stand  or  fall 
according  to  its  merits.  Poetry,  written  and 
printed,  under  such  circumstances,  can  do  little 
harm  to  any.  Its  author  it  can  hardly  fail  to 
benefit.  "  It  opens,"  says  Lander,  "  many  sources 
of  tenderness  that  lie  forever  in  the  rock  without 
it."  Or  to  borrow  the  words  of  Mackenzie, 
"  Poetry  (let  the  prudence  of  the  world  say  what 
it  will,)  is  one  of  the  noblest  amusements.  Our 
philanthropy  is  almost  always  increased  by  it. 
There  is  a  certain  poetic  ground  on  which  we 
cannot  tread  without  feelings  that  mend  the  heart, 
and  many  who  are  not  able  to  reach  the  Parnas- 
sian heights,  may  yet  advance  so  near  as  to  be 
bettered  by  the  air  of  the  climate." 

I  cannot  close  these  remarks,  without  adding  a 
passage   from  a  private  letter  of  one  who  has 


INTRODUCTION.  29 

shown  herself  a  devoted  friend  of  the  working 
classes,  and  who  in  a  late  volume*  has  spoken  in 
behalf  of  domestic  servants  with  true  wisdom  and 
pathos,  as  well  as  with  a  noble  disregard  of  that 
contempt  which  is  but  too  apt,  even  in  this  Repub- 
lican country,  to  be  expressed  for  all  efforts  to 
raise  the  masses  into  the  scale  of  intellectual  and 
social  welfare.  This  passage  will  show  that  Miss 
Sedgwick's  views  are  entirely  free  from  that 
radical  tendency  with  which  they  have  been 
charged  —  that  while  she  would  urge  employers 
to  consult  the  happiness  and  improvement  of  their 
domestics,  she  would  at  the  same  time  teach  the 
latter  to  expect  true  enjoyment  and  dignity  from 
nothing  but  the  contented  and  dutiful  performance 
of  the  part  assigned  them  by  Providence.  Some 
apology  may  be  due  to  her  for  the  liberty  which  I 
take  in  transcribing  this  passage  ;  but  the  caution 
which  it  contains  is  so  seasonable,  and  comes  from 
her  with  so  much  authority,  that  I  cannot  refrain 
from  making  it  public.  The  letter  was  in  reply  to 
one  in  which  I  had  requested  information  of  other 
cases  similar  to  that  of  Maria  James. 

"  I  do  not  remember  any  instance  analogous  to 
Maria  James's  —  any  person  in  precisely  her 
sphere,  who  had  solaced  a  life  of  labour  with  in- 

*  Live  and  let  live. 


30  INTRODUCTION. 

tellectual  occupations.  But  I  have  known  several 
persons  in  Stockbridge,  which  is  but  a  small 
country  town,  who  were  operatives  —  men  em- 
ployed on  farms,  and  women  in  domestic  labours, 
whose  highest  pleasure  was  in  the  exercise  of 
their  intellectual  faculties,  and  who  not  only  read 
all  the  books  they  could  compass,  but  occasionally 
wrote  what  others  might  read  with  pleasure  and 
profit.  The  tendency  of  an  education  so  diffused 
as  that  of  New  England,  is  to  make  a  writing  as 
well  as  a  reading  people.  The  ambition  for 
literary  notoriety  does  not,  it  seems  to  me,  need 
stimulus.  Our  people,  on  the  contrary,  require 
to  be  taught  that  mind  may  be  employed  upon 
humble  duties,  and  virtue  expended  upon  actions 
that,  in  this  world  at  least,  will  forever  remain  in 
obscurity.  I  should  doubt  (1  say  it  to  you,  sir, 
with  diffidence,)  the  expediency  of  presenting 
Maria  James  as  an  example  to  be  followed  by 
minds  in  her  sphere.  A  mind  that  like  hers  has  a 
spring  within  itself,  cannot  be  repressed  within 
conventional  boundaries ;  and  her  achievements 
should  be  made  known  to  repress  the  supercilious 
pride  of  the  privileged  and  educated,  and  to  raise 
the  courage,  and  fortify  the  self-respect  of  the 
mute  and  inglorious  in  humble  life  —  to  prove  that 
as  Mad.  de  Stael  said,  "  genius  has  no  sex"  — 
neither  has  it  any  condition.  But  while  I  should 


INTRODUCTION.  31 

wish  this  done  —  while  I  should  wish  the  humblest 
stimulated  to  the  cultivation  and  enjoyment  of 
their  intellectual  faculties,  I  would  have  them  feel 
that  a  dutiful  performance  gives  dignity  to  the 
lowliest  office — that  a  domestic  may  find  exer- 
cise for  mind  and  heart  in  the  prescribed  duties 
of  her  station  —  and  that  their  intellectual  facul- 
ties do  not  run  to  waste,  because  they  are  not  de- 
voted to  what  is  esteemed  their  highest  exercise. 
I  have  seen  many  persons  disturbed  with  longings 
after  something  out  of  their  condition,  when  they 
would  have  been  made  happy  by  a  right  appreci- 
ation of  what  was  within  it.  I  do  not  mean  by 
this  that  I  never  discourage  a  taste  for  letters  in 
working  men  and  women.  Books  are  sure  and 
unfailing  friends  —  and  like  all  friends,  their  value 
is  more  fully  realized  in  the  shady  than  in  the 
sunny  places  of  life.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  have 
expressed  myself  very  clearly — for  having  va- 
rious domestic  cares  and  anxieties  just  now,  I 
scarcely  write  two  lines  without  interruption. 
All  that  I  mean  is,  that  I  would  carefully  avoid 
affording  our  domestics  incentives  to  be  authors, 
instead  of  giving  to  their  own  calling  the  dignity 
and  worth  of  which  it  is  susceptible." 

A.  POTTER. 

Union  College,  Dec.  1838. 


32  INTRODUCTION. 


MEMOIR. 


SOME  desire  will  probably  be  felt  by  the  read- 
ers of  this  volume,  to  become  better  acquainted 
with  the  personal  history  of  the  writer.  For- 
tunately, it  is  in  my  power  to  gratify  this  curiosity 
in  her  own  language.  Some  months  since,  I  re- 
quested Miss  Garretson  to  obtain  specimens  of 
her  earlier  efforts  at  composition,  that  I  might  be 
able  to  trace  the  progress  of  her  mind,  and  to  ob- 
serve the  circumstances  which  might  have  con- 
tributed to  its  developement.  In  her  reply,  Miss 
G.  says,  "1  mentioned  when  I  first  returned,  your 
desire  to  have  some  of  Maria's  early  pieces,  that 
you  might  mark  the  progress  of  her  mind.  She 
said  she  had  destroyed  them  all,  and  it  was  well 
I  did  (she  said.)  It  was  all  there,  but  I  wanted 
the  power  of  utterance  then."  She  added  how- 
ever, "  that  she  would,  if  she  could,  write  for 
Mrs.  Potter*  the  history  of  her  mind's  progress." 
I  subjoin  it  in  her  own  words  —  simply  adding, 

*  Who  before  her  marriage  had  often  been  an  inmate  of  the 
family . 


INTRODUCTION.  33 

that  she  appears  to  have  contracted  some  sus- 
picion that  I  intended  to  make  it  public  —  for  she 
complains  that  she  was  unable  to  write  with  her 
usual  ease  or  spirit.  Miss  G.  in  forwarding  the 
sketch  says,  "  Maria  has  copied  until  she  has 
taken  the  spirit  from  it.  The  rough  draught  was 
far  the  best,  but  that  she  has  destroyed." 


34  INTRODUCTION. 


TO  MRS.  POTTER. 

Rhinebeck,  May  2Gth,  1838. 

DEAR  MADAM — In  answer  to  the  question,  respecting  the 
manner  in  which  the  little  knowledge  I  possess  was  obtained, 
I  will  endeavour  to  reply  with  simplicity  and  brevity,  —  by  bring- 
ing forward  circumstances  which  may  serve  the  point  from  child- 
hood to  the  present  time. 

Towards  the  completion  of  my  seventh  year,  I  found  myself  on 
ship-board,  surrounded  by  men,  women,  and  children,  whose 
faces  were  unknown  to  me :  it  was  here  perhaps  that  I  first  be- 
gan to  learn  in  a  particular  manner  from  observation,  soon  dis- 
covering that  those  children  who  were  handsome  or  smartly 
drest,  received  much  more  attention  than  myself,  who  had  neither 
of  these  recommendations ;  however,  instead  of  giving  way  to  feel- 
ings of  envy  and  jealousy,  my  imagination  was  revelling  among 
the  fruits  and  flowers  which  I  expected  to  find  in  the  land  to 
which  we  were  bound.  I  also  had  an  opportunity  to  learn  a 
little  English  during  the  voyage,  as  '  take  care,'  and  '  get  out  of 
the  way,'  seemed  reiterated  from  land's-end  to  land's-end. 

After  our  family  were  settled  in  some  measure,  I  was  sent  to 
school,  my  father  having  commenced  teaching  me  at  home  some 
time  previous.  I  think  there  was  no  particular  aptness  to  learn 
about  me.  After  I  could  read,  I  took  much  delight  in  John 
Rogers's  last  advice  to  his  children,  with  all  the  excellent  et 
caeteras  to  be  found  in  the  old  English  primer.  I  was  also  fond 
of  reading  the  common  hymn-book  —  the  New  Testament  was 
my  only  school-book.  Thus  accomplished,  I  happened  one  day 
to  hear  a  young  woman  read  Addison's  inimitable  paraphrases 
of  the  23d  psalm.  I  listened  as  to  the  voice  of  an  angel;  those 
who  know  the  power  of  good  reading  or  good  speaking,  need  not 
be  told,  that  where  there  is  an  ear  for  sound,  the  manner  in 
which  either  is  done  will  make  every  possible  difference :  this, 
probably,  was  the  first  time  that  I  ever  heard  a  good  reader. 


INTRODUCTION.  35 

My  parents  again  removing,  I  found  myself  in  a  school  where 
the  elder  children  used  the  American  preceptor.  I  listened  in 
transport  as  they  read  Dwight's  Columbia,  which  must  have  been 
merely  from  the  smoothness  of  its  sound,  as  I  could  have  had  but 
very  little  knowledge  of  its  meaning.  I  was  now  ten  years  of 
age,  and  as  an  opportunity  offered  which  my  parents  saw  fit  to 
embrace,  I  entered  the  family  in  which  I  now  reside,  where,  be- 
sides learning  many  useful  household  occupations,  that  care  and 
attention  was  paid  to  my  words  and  actions,  as  is  seldom  to  be 
met  with,  in  such  situations. 

I  had  before  me,  some  of  the  best  models  for  good  reading  and 
good  speaking ;  and  any  child  with  a  natural  ear  for  the  beautiful 
in  language,  will  notice  these  things  ;  and  though  their  con- 
versation may  not  differ  materially  from  that  of  others  in  their 
line  of  life,  they  will  almost  invariably  think  in  the  style  of  their 
admiration. 

The  sacred  Scriptures  here,  as  in  my  father's  house,  was  the 
book  of  books,  the  heads  of  the  family  constantly  impressing  on 
all,  that  *  the  fear  of  the  Lord  is  the  beginning  of  wisdom,'  and  to 
depart  from  iniquity  is  understanding.'  There  is  scarcely  any 
thing  that  can  affect  the  mind  of  young  persons  like  those  lessons 
of  wisdom  which  fall  from  lips  they  love  and  respect. 

Besides  frequent  opportunities  of  hearing  instructive  books 
read,  my  leisure  hours  were  often  devoted  to  one  or  the  other  of 
these  works  j  first,  the  *  Female  Mentor,'  comprising  within  itself 
a  little  epitome  of  elegant  literature  ;  two  odd  volumes  of  the  Ad- 
venturer ;  Miss  Hannah  Moore's  cheap  repository,  and  Pilgrim's 
Progress.  During  a  period  of  nearly  seven  years,  which  I  spent 
in  this  family,  the  newspapers  were  more  or  less  filled  with  the 
wars  and  fightings  of  our  European  neighbours.  My  imagination 
took  fire,  and  I  lent  an  ear  to  the  whispers  of  the  muse. 
"  'Twas  then  that  first  she  prun'd  the  wing ; 
'Twas  then  she  first  essay'd  to  sing." 

But  the  wing  was  powerless,  and  the  song  without  melody. 
As  I  advanced  towards  womanhood,  I  shrunk  from  the  nick- 


36  INTRODUCTION. 

name  of  poet,  which  had  been  awarded  me :  the  very  idea  seemed 
the  height  of  presumption.  In  my  seventeenth  year  I  left  this 
situation  to  learn  dress-making.  I  sewed  neatly,  but  too  slow  to 
ensure  success.  My  failure  in  this  was  always  a  subject  of 
regret.  After  this,  I  lived  some  time  in  different  situations,  my 
employment  being  principally  in  the  nursery.  In  each  of  these 
different  families,  I  had  access  to  those  who  spoke  the  purest 
English,  also  frequent  opportunities  of  hearing  correct  and  ele- 
gant readers  —  at  least  I  believed  them  such  by  the  effect  pro- 
duced on  my  feelings  ;  and  although  nineteen  years  have  nearly 
passed  away  since  my  return  to  the  home  of  my  early  life,  I  have 
not  ceased  to  remember  with  gratitude  the  kind  treatment  received 
from  different  persons  at  this  period  j  while  my  attachment  to  their 
children  has  not  been  obliterated  by  time,  nor  by  absence  j  and 
is  likely  to  continue, 

Till  death  itself  congeal  the  purple  tide. 

Such,  my  dear  Madam,  is  a  brief  outline  of  the  ways  and 
means  by  which  I  acquired  the  little  knowledge  which  I  possess ; 
the  whole  amount  of  my  school-learning,  being  to  read  and  write, 
with  some  understanding  in  arithmetic. 

With  respect  to  my  religious  advantages,  they  have  been 
neither  few  nor  small.  My  mother  was  an  upright,  conscientious 
Christian  :  —  how  often  have  I  heard  her  voice  in  prayer  for  the 
souls  of  her  children, 

So  fervent,  so  sincere. 

My  father  became  a  professor  of  religion  some  time  after  I  left 
home.  Wherein  soever  I  may  have  erred  in  the  course  of  my 
life,  it  certainly  could  not  be  charged  to  those  with  whom  my  lot 
has  been  cast.  From  the  earliest  dawn  of  reason  to  the  present 
time,  I  have  been  blest  with  religious  instruction,  with  religious 
example.  I  did  not  profit  in  the  season  of  youth  as  I  should  have 
done,  with  such  advantages ;  yet  the  Holy  Spirit  left  me  not  to 
perish,  but  was  continually  crying  after  me,  by  the  sacred  word, 
by  the  preaching  of  the  gospel,  by  the  warnings  of  his  faithful 


INTRODUCTION.  37 

servants,  and  since  I  have  set  my  face  Zionward,  so  manifold 
have  been  my  short-comings,  my  imperfections,  that  I  would  fain 
lay  my  hand  on  my  mouth,  and  my  mouth  in  the  dust,  crying  un- 
clean, unclean. 

With  respect  to  the  few  poems  which  you  have  been  so  kind 
as  to  overlook,  I  can  hardly  say  myself,  how  they  came  to  be 
written.  I  recollect  many  years  ago,  of  trying  something  in  this 
way  for  the  amusement  of  a  little  boy,  who  was  very  dear  to  me: 
except  this,  with  a  very  few  other  pieces,  long  forgotten,  no  at- 
tempt of  the  kind  was  made  until '  The  Mother's  lament ;  "  Elijah ;" 
with  a  number  of  epitaphs,  which  were  written  previous  to  those 
which  have  been  produced  within  the  last  six  years.  The  "  Hum- 
ming-bird," being  the  oldest  of  these,  was  taken  captive  by  my 
own  hand;  the  '  Adventure'  is  described  just  as  it  happened, 
Wales  is  a  kind  of  retrospect  of  the  days  of  childhood ;  if  it  has 
any  merit,  it  must  be  owing  to  one  particular,  namely,  that  it  is 
the  truth  from  end  to  end.  Of  Ambition,'  permit  me,  dear  Madam, 
to  call  your  attention  to  the  summer  of  1832,  when  yourself  with 
the  other  ladies  of  this  family  were  reading  Bourrienne's  Life  of  N. 
B.  I  had  opportunities  of  hearing  a  little  sometimes,  which 
brought  forcibly  to  my  mind  certain  conversations  which  I  heard 
in  the  early  part  of  my  life  respecting  this  wonderful  man.  The 
poem  was  produced  the  following  summer. 

In  the  year  1819,  the  "  American  flag,"  appeared  in  the  N.  Y. 
American,  signed  Croaker  &  Co. :  this  had  like  to  have  kindled 
up  the  poetic  fires  in  my  breast,  which  however  did  not  find  ut- 
terance until  fourteen  years  afterwards,  in  the  ode  on  the  fouith  of 
July,  1833.  This  appearing  in  print,  some  who  did  not  know  me 
very  wel!>  remarked  to  others,  *  do  you  suppose  she  ever  wrote  it? 
Being  answered  in  the  affirmative,  it  was  further  '  imagined '  she 
must  have  had  help.'  These  remarks  gave  rise  to  the  question, 
'  what  is  poetry  ?'  The  "  Album  "  was  begun  and  carried  through 
without  previous  arrangement  or  design;  laid  aside  when  the 
mind  was  weary,  and  taken  up  again  just  as  the  subject  hap- 
pened to  present  itself.  "Friendship"  was  produced  in  the 
4 


38  INTRODUCTION. 

same  way.  Many  of  the  pieces  are  written  from  impressions  re- 
ceived in  youth,  particularly  the  "  Whippoorwill,"  "  the  Meadow- 
lark,"  the  "  Fire-fly,"  &c. 

Fearing  that  I  have  already  tired  your  patience,  I  will  hasten  to 
subscribe  myself, 

Dear  Madam, 

Your  most  obedient, 

And  very  humble  servant, 
1838.  MARIA  JAMES. 


In  the  letter  which  accompanied  this  sketch, 
Miss  Garretson  added  several  facts  from  her  own 
recollection,  which  will  be  read  with  interest. 
In  regard  to  Maria's  early  life,  she  says :  — 

"  Maria  came  to  us  when  she  was  about  10  years  old.  Her 
mother  was  an  excellent  woman,  and  had  then  just  moved  to  the 
slate  quarries,  in  Clinton,  about  7  miles  off!  I  remember  her  con- 
stantly at  church ;  the  whole  distance  to  which  she  walked. 
She  was  at  that  time  the  only  professing  Christian  in  the  little 
settlement;*  the  rest  she  used  to  assemble  at  her  house,  to  read 
for  them,  and  pray  with  them  in  her  own  language,  (the  quarry 
was  principally  worked  by  Welch  people.)  Mamma  took  a  very 
great  liking  to  this  excellent  woman,  and  as  I  was  a  sickly  se- 
dentary child, -thought  that  if  she  could  get  a  little  girl  of  my  own 
age  to  bring  up,  it  would  be  a  great  advantage  to  my  health.  She 
accordingly  applied  to  Mrs.  James,  and  found  that  her  eldest 
daughter  was  of  a  suitable  age  to  be  useful  in  the  house,  and  to 
be  a  companion  for  me,  and  without  seeing  her,  bespoke  her. 

*  Shortly  after  papa  was  sent  for  to  baptize  a  child  at  the  quarry.  He  es- 
tablished preaching  there  :  an  extensive  revival  took  place  among  the  Welch, 
and  Maria's  father  was  one  of  the  subjects  of  it. 


INTRODUCTION.  39 

She  was  brought,  in  her  striped  homespun  dress,  well  instructed 
by  her  mother  in  all  the  proprieties  of  her  situation,  and  in  all  its 
moral  duties —  with  a  pathos  and  a  simplicity,  which  might  have 
shamed  many  an  elaborate  discourse.  Among  other  things,  her 
mother  instructed  her  always  to  call  Mamma  Mistress,  —  a  terra 
which,  with  the  definite  article  before  it,  has  always  been  used  by 
our  family  as  a  term  of  endearment  and  respect.  Her  work  was 
light,  —  and  when  it  was  finished,  with  her  clean  apron  on,  she 
always  took  her  seat  on  a  little  bench  in  the  parlour,  with  her 
knitting,  or  sewing,  while  I  said  my  lessons  to  mamma,  or  we 
read.  The  lessons  were  very  trifling ;  but  we  read  a  great  deal. 
Papa  and  mamma  were  very  indefatigable  readers,  and  every  in- 
teresting or  useful  book,  was  read  aloud  for  the  good  of  the  whole. 
When  we  lived  in  New- York,  Maria  was  sent  to  school.  She 
could  read,  and  I  believe  write,  when  she  came  to  us ;  and  papa 
took  some  pains  with  her  hand,  which  she  tells  me,  was  formed 
on  the  model  of  his.  He  was  at  all  events,  more  successful  in 
forming  hers  than  mine," 

In  regard  to  the  circumstances  which  at  this 
early  period  must  have  operated  in  the  formation 
of  Maria's  character,  Miss  G.  says  :  — 

"  Steam-boats  and  Rail-roads  had  not  then  drawn  together 
the  ends  of  the  world,  — so  that  we  were  a  very  quiet  family,  see- 
ing, with  the  exception  of  our  relations,  very  few  persons  beside 
our  brethren  of  the  ministry,  and  of  the  laity  too  ;  —  for  there  was 
rarely  a  wandering  Methodist  (gentle  or  simple,)  that  did  not  put 
up  for  a  night  at  least,  at  Father  Garretson's.  There  was  much 
of  romance  as  well  as  poetry  in  the  Methodist  preacher's  charac- 
ter in  those  days.  They  dropped  in  upon  us,  in  the  midst  of 
storms  and  cold, — brought  us  tidings  from  the  north  and  south, 
the  east  and  west,  (our  conferences  were  then  very  extended,) 
and  always  sent  a  thrill  of  pleasure  to  our  young  hearts.  The 
tidings  of  a  "  Methodist  preacher  coming,"  was  echoed  from 
kitchen  to  parlour,  and  from  parlour  to  bed-room,  until  all  were 

t- 


40  INTRODUCTION^ 

On  the  watch,  and  the  saddTe-bags  and  peculiar  joy  were  dis- 
covered. I  mention  these  circumstances,  as  1  think  they  must 
have  had  their  effect  in  the  formation  of  her  character.  If  she  en- 
joyed them  with  as  keen  a  relish  as  I  did,  I  am  sure  they  had*. 
It  was  a  romantic  age  in  every  respect,  and  we  shared  largely  in 
it.  I  remember,  I  used  to  love  Pilgrim's  Progress  dearly,  for  I 
thought  I  saw  in  it  a  picture  of  our  own  times.  The  City  of  De- 
struction was  behind  us, — and  though  with  an  unrenewed  heart, 
I  almost  felt  as  if  I  was  one  of  the  children  travelling  to  Mount 
Zion,  in  the  train  of  Christiana,  and  Mr.  Great  Heart  our  guide. 
The  house  of  Gaius  wore  to  me  a  strong  likeness  to  the  houses 
I  was  familiar  with."  > 

She  then  speaks  of  Maria's  first  attempts  at 
verse  :  — 

"  About  this  time,  Maria  began  to  write.  The  only  one  of  her 
early  pieces  I  recollect,  she  has  alluded  to.  I  had  it  long  in  man- 
uscript, but  have  lost  it.  She  never  committed  it  to  paper,  but 
papa  did.  He  called  her  to  him  one  evening,  questioned  her 
about  her  talent,  and  begged  her  to  repeat  something  she  had 
composed.  With  great  modesty,  she  dictated  the  following  lines, 
which  he  wrote  : 

^He  bled  in  scenes  well  known  before  p 
He  died  upon  a  hostile  shore : 
The  thirsty  earth  did  drink  his  blood ; 
His  spirit  went  unto  his  God. 

And  on  his  grave  the  evening  star, 
Mild  as  the  morn  which  shines  from  far; 
And  Cynthia  darts  her  paley  beam, 
While  shining  in  the  grand  serene. 

There  nature  mourns  in  tears  of  dew ; 
There  loveliest  flowers  around  him  grew ; 
And  there  the  Muses  sit  and  weep, 
When  all  the  world  is  hush'd  in  sleep.' 

I  think  she  was  between  twelve  and  thirteen  when  papa  wrote 
this  from  her  dictation.  She  read  as  much  as  she  had  opportu- 


INTRODUCTION.  41 

nity.  Her  work  of  course  became  heavier  as  she  advanced  in 
years ;  but  it  was  always  sufficiently  light  to  give  her  some  leis- 
ure, —  and  she  was  always  the  companion  of  our  sports,  even 
after  many  companions  were  added  to  my  little  circle.  She  was 
always  imaginative,  and  her  imagination  carried  her  amid  Euro- 
pean scenes.  She  was  also  very  aristocratic  in  her  notions.  Her 
pictures  of  the  noble  and  grand  were  perfectly  unreal ;  and  I  well 
recollect  that,  in  our  little  disputes  as  children,  she  always  took  the 
aristocratic,  and  I  the  democratic  side  of  the  argument." 

Miss  G.  continues,  — 

"When  Maria  was  between  15  and  16,  mamma  thought  her 
so  entirely  superior  to  her  situation,  that  she  had  her  placed  with  an 
excellent  mantua-maker  in  New- York.  It  was  at  a  great  sacri- 
fice of  feeling  that  we  separated  from  her.  Mamma  wept  at 
parting  with  her,  as  if  she  had  been  a  daughter.  Not  being  able, 
as  she  states,  to  get  employment,  and  her  sister  having  taken  her 
place  in  our  family,  she  went  out  to  service  in  New- York.  It  was 
not  till  after  8  or  9  years  that  she  returned  to  us,  —  and  while  she 
was  absent,  I  do  not  think  she  wrote  more  than  two  or  three 
pieces.  When  she  left  us,  though  she  showed  a  kind  and  natural 
feeling,  I  imagine  that  the  future  looked  bright  before  her.  Her 
character,  as  I  have  said,  was  romantic ;  and  I  suppose  that  life, 
viewed  through  the  medium  of  a  warm  and  poetic  imagination, 
seemed  full  of  promise.  After  an  absence  of  several  years,  she 
returned  to  the  same  spot ;  and  I  believe  many  sad  feelings  ac- 
companied her  return,  (though  she  did  not  express  them.)  She 
had  known  the  realities  of  life,  apart  perhaps  from  some  of  the 
sympathies  which  the  peculiarity  of  her  character  required,  —  and 
she  now  set  herself  down,  to  be  as  much  as  possible  a  common- 
place woman.  I  doubt  if  any  one  ever  more  faithfully  endeav- 
oured to  bring  down  their  manners  and  tastes  to  a  level  with  their 
circumstances.  In  regard  to  her  religious  character,  she  had  al- 
ways, I  think,  the  fear  of  God  before  her  eyes  •  but  a  year  or  two 
after  her  return,  she  became  decidedly  pious,  and  was  united  to 
4he  church." 

4* 


42 


Speaking  of  her  intellectual    habits,  Miss  G. 
states,  — 

"  Maria  has  read  comparatively  little  for  many  years,  —  but  has 
observed  a  great  deal,  and  reflected  even  more  than  she  has  ob- 
served. Since  she  began  to  write,  or  rather  since  her  writings 
have  elicited  remark,  she  has  frequently  been  urged  to  cread 
Shakspeare,  &c.  &c.  She  has  always  said  to  me,  —  *  Miss  Mary, 
I  r^ever  find  that  those  things  inspire  me.  I  find  nothing  I  read 
ha£  that  effect,  except  the  Bible.1  —  She  has,  in  no  common  degree, 
an  eye  for  the  beauty  and  poetry  of  nature,  and  an  ear  for  its  har- 
monies ;  and  her  moral  sense  deeply  appreciates  the  lessons  which 
she  draws  from  them.  The  first  piece  which  she  wrote,  after 
her  return,  was  occasioned  by  the  wedding  of  a  Christian  friend, 
whom  she  accompanied.  The  match,  however,  turned  out  bad- 
ly, —  the  piece  was  ridiculed;  (her  feelings  have  been  always 
keenly  alive  to  ridicule;)  and  though,  as  well  as  I  can  recollect, 
it  was  very  beautiful,  she  will  not  consent  to  put  it  in  the  book. 
The  next  time  she  wrote  was  for  the  infant  school,  —  a  few  lines 
which  I  have  lost,  —  and  '  Elijah.'  They  were  quite  off-hand 
productions,  —  the  subject  given  in  the  evening,  and  the  lines 
handed  in  the  next  morning.  The  next  was  a  piece  written  in  a 
blank  leaf  of  my  father's  life,  which  she  dictated  to  Winnifred 
while  at  the  ironing-table.  The  next  were  the  pieces  in  the  book, 
entitled  *  To  Harriet,'  and  '  To  Winnifred,'  —  two  young  girls 
who  were  just  setting  out  in  the  Christian  life,  —  very  intimate 
and  lovely,  —  both  in  our  kitchen,  —  one  as  the  school-mistress 
of  the  district  school.  She  next  wrote  a  piece  which  was  cha- 
racteristic of  Mr.  -  's  preaching,  which  she  has  destroyed. 
Since  then  she  has  written  frequently,  as  you  know.  I  think,  de- 
cidedly, her  poems  are  much  more  the  result  of  observation  and 
reflection,  than  of  reading  or  conversation.  They  are  almost  al- 
ways composed  when  she  is  in  the  midst  of  active,  but  solitary 
employment." 

There  is  much  in  this  narrative  to  awaken  re- 


INTRODUCTION.  43 

flection.     It  shows  us  what  can  be  done,  by  kind 
and  judicious  employers,  for  the  happiness  and 
improvement  of  those  who  are  under  their  con- 
trol.    To  those  who  are  appointed  to  lives  of  la- 
bour, it  conveys  the  important  and  cheering  les- 
son that,  for  them  as  well  as  for  others,  there  are 
means  of  intellectual  culture,  and  that  the  use  of 
these  means  is  perfectly  compatible  with  the  most 
meek  and  faithful  discharge  of  their  duties:  —  it 
teaches,  too,  that  the  book  of  books  is  an  inex- 
haustible treasury  for  the  intellect  and  taste,  as 
well  as  for  the  heart ;  —  and,  finally,  it  reassures 
us  of  the  delightful  truth,  that  He  who  "tempers 
the  breeze   to  the  shorn  lamb,"  can  lighten   the 
pressure  of  the  severest  toil,  without  deadening 
the  intellect,  or  making  the  heart  callous  ;  that  it 
is  in  the  power  of  an  active,  but  chastened  im- 
agination, to  mingle   bright  and   healthy  visions 
with  the  dull  details  of  labour ;  and,  above  all, 
that  a  Christian's  faith  can  draw  down  from  heaven 
substantial  and  enduring  glories,  with  which  to 
invest  the  humblest  occupations.     But  on  these 
topics  I  need  not  enlarge. 

Some  of  these  pieces  will  be  found,  I  trust,  to 
breathe  the  true  spirit  of  poetry,  —  "  simple,  sens- 
uous, and  impassioned."  None  will  question  that 
they  breathe  a  yet  nobler  spirit.  —  the  spirit  of 
true  piety.  I  cannot  but  hope  that,  in  the  opinion 


44  INTRODUCTION. 

which  I  formed  when  I  first  read  them,  I  shall  be 
sustained  by  the  verdict  of  the  public  ;  that  they 
will  find  in  them  "some  things"  which  "  the  world 
will  not  willingly  let  die."  Should  this  be  the 
case,  may  my  humble,  but  valued  friend,  show 
that  she  is  proof  against  all  the  temptations  ot 
celebrity,  and  that  she  still  finds  her  happiness  in 
the  cheerful  and  unostentatious  performance  of 
her  accustomed  duties.  A.  P. 


MOTTO. 

I  WOULD  not  ask,  —  for  that  were  vain,  - 
To  mingle  with  the  reaper  train,  — 
Who  gayly  sing,  as  hast'ning  by 
To  pile  their  golden  sheaves  on  high ; 
But  with  the  group  who  meet  the  view, 
In  kerchief  red  and  apron  blue, 
I  crave  the  scatter'd  ears  they  yield* 
To  bless  the  gleaner  of  the  field. 


•" 


WALES. 

Beyond  the  dark  blue  sea, 

Beyond  the  path  of  storms, 
Where  wave  with  wave,  in  converse  loud, 

Uprear  their  forms,  — 

Westward,  on  Britain's  isle, 

The  rocky  cliffs  are  seen, 
With  cities  fair,  and  ruin'd  towers, 

And  meadows  green. 

But  cities  fair,  or  towers, 

Are  not  so  dear  to  me 
As  one  lone  cot  that  stood  beside 

A  spreading  tree. 

Though  dim  on  memory's  page 

The  recollections  rise,    « 
As  backward,  through  the  vale  of  years, 

I  cast  my  eyes ; 


WALES. 

Yet  well  I  mind  the  fields 
Where  best  I  lov'd  to  roam* 

Or  meet  my  father  when  at  night 
Returning  home. 

And  well  I  mind  the  path 
That  led  towards  the  spring, 

And  how  I  listened  when  the  birds 
Were  carolling. 

And  well  I  mind  the  flowers, 

In  gay  profusion  spread 
O'er  hill  and  dale,  and  how  I  deck'd 

My  garden  bed. 

For  there  the  summer  sun 

Unfolds  the  cowslip-bell, 
And  there  the  cuckoo's  voice  is  heard 

In  shady  dell. 

There  Snowdon  lifts  his  head 

To  greet  the  rising  day, 
Whose  latest  glories  linger  round 

The  summits  gray. 

There  sleep  her  sons  of  fame  ; 
There  rest  her  bards  of  yore : 


W  A.  L  E  S  .  49 

And  shall  the  Cambrian  lyre 
Awake  no  more  ? 

Cymry,*  thou  wert  of  old 

A  land  renown' d  for  song  ; 
But  where  is  now  thy  soul  of  fire,  — 

Thy  melting  tongue  ? 

'Twas  in  that  tongue  that  first 

I  heard  the  Book  Divine,  — 
The  guide  through  life's  bewildering  maze,  — 

A  light  to  shine. 

• 
And  still  the  sacred  page, 

At  morn  or  even  tide, 
From  lips  which  now  are  hush'd  in  death, 

Did  calmly  glide. 

I  heard  Jehovah's  praise 

In  Cymry's  native  tongue, 
And  hung  upon  those  artless  strains, — 

In  rapture  hung. 

'Twas  like  the  gushing  streams 
In  dry  and  thirsty  land, 

*  The  Welch  for  Cambria. 
5 


50  WALES. 

Or  soul-dissolving  melody 
Of  some  full  band, 

'Twas  in  that  tongue  that  first 

I  heard  the  voice  of  prayer, 
Beseeching  Heaven  to  take  us  all 

Beneath  its  care. 

Was  ever  cause  on  earth 

With  interest  so  replete, 
As  when  a  parent's  heart  draws  near 

The  mercy-seat  1 

• 
So  fervent,  such  sincere, 

Importunate  distress,  — 
••  Oh  bless  them,  for  the  Saviour's  sake,  — 
My  Father,  bless  ! 

"  And  if,  through  cloud  and  storm, 
Life's  troubled  waves  be  past,  — 

Oh  grant  them  this  —  that  safe  in  heaven 
They  moor  at  last." 

Land  of  my  fathers  !  ne'er 

Shall  I  forget  thy  name,  — 
Oh  ne'er  while  in  this  bosom  glows 

Life's  transient  flame ! 


ODE, 

WRITTEN    FOR    THE  FOURTH  OF    JULY,  1833. 

I  SEE  that  banner  proudly  wave, — 

Yes,  proudly  waving  yet, 

Not  a  stripe  is  torn  from  the  broad  array,  — 

Not  a  single  star  is  set ; 

And  the  eagle,  with  unruffled  plume, 

Is  soaring  aloft  in  the  welkin  dome. 

Not  a  leaf  is  pluck' d  from  the  branch  he  bears  ; 

From  his  grasp  not  an  arrow  has  flown ; 

The  mist  that  obstructed  bis  vision  is  past, 

And  the  murmur  of  discord  is  gone ; 

For  he  sees,  with  a  glance  over  mountain  and  plain, 

The  union  unbroken,  from  Georgia  to  Maine. 

Far  southward,  in  that  sunny  clime, 

Where  bright  magnolias  bloom, 

And  the  orange  with  the  lime  tree  vies 

In  shedding  rich  perfume, 

A  sound  was  heard  like  the  ocean's  roar, 

As  its  surges  break  on  the  rocky  shore. 


52  ODE. 

Was  it  the  voice  of  the  tempest  loud, 

As  it  felPd  some  lofty  tree, 

Or  a  sudden  flash  from  a  passing  storm 

Of  heaven's  artillery  ? 

But  it  died  away,  and  the  sound  of  doves 

Is  heard  again  in  the  scented  groves. 

The  links  are  all  united  still, 

That  form  the  golden  chain,  — 

And  peace  and  plenty  smile  around, 

Throughout  the  wide  domain  :  — 

How  feeble  is  language,  —  how  cold  is  the  lay, 

Compar'd  with  the  joy  of  this  festival  day  — 

To  see  that  banner  waving  yet,  — 

Aye,  waving  proud  and  high,  — 

No  rent  in  all  its  ample  folds  ; 

No  stain  of  crimson  dye  : 

And  the  eagle  spreads  his  pinions  fair, 

And  mounts  aloft  in  the  fields  of  air. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN    ON    A    BLANK    LEAF    OF    THE    LIFE    OF 
THE  REV.   F.   GARRETSON. 

IF  from  the  mansions  of  the  dead, 
Those  silent  lips  could  speak  to  me,  — 
They  still  would  say,  as  oft  they've  said, 
"  Behold  the  Lamb  on  Calvary  !" 

No  more  the  patriarch's  voice  we  hear 
At  morn,  like  holy  incense  rise,  — 
Nor  when  the  evening  shades  appear, 
In  offering  up  the  sacrifice. 

But  far  above  we'll  seek  for  him, 
Where  saints  and  bright  arch-angels  dwell, — 
And  where  the  burning  seraphim 
Their  holy  song  of  rapture  swell, 
1831. 


5* 


ON  SEEING   A    BUST 

OF    THE    LATE    HON.   EDWARD    LIVINGSTON. 

>Tis  not  the  cold  and  lifeless  stone, — 
Memorial  of  some  cherish'd  one  ; 
The  chisePs  pure,  unerring  line, 
That  mocks  the  human  face  divine  ; 
But  soul-transfus'd  through  every  part, 
That  chains  the  sense  and  wins  the  heart. 
The  listening  ear,  the  attentive  eye, 
The  air  of  gentle  courtesy  ; 
A  look  that  might  with  sounds  dispense 
A  calm  and  silent  eloquence,  — 
Which  tells  of  deep  research,  (hat  went 
Beyond  the  outward  tenement,  — 
Of  light,  of  presence  well  defined, 
That  shone  upon  the  sculptor's  mind,  — 
Who,  as  he  fashion'd  still  with  care, 
Has  left  the  radiance  beaming  there. 
1837. 


THE    PICTURE. 

These  lines  were  suggested  by  the  writer's  calling  to  see  a  very 
aged  and  venerable  lady,*  whom  she  found  sitting  for  her  picture. 
New- York,  June  4th,  1838. 

ERE  dissolved  the  house  of  clay, 
Ere  the  vision  melts  away, 
Ere  descend  the  tottering  walls, 
Ere  the  sacred  mantle  falls, 
Lay  the  colouring,  —  mingle  there 
Mary's  love  and  Martha's  care  : 
Hers  an  ear  for  other's  wo, 
Hers  the  hand,  the  heart  to  do  ; 
But  in  serving  had  she  rest, 
But  in  blessing  was  she  bless'd. 


THE    FIRE-FLY. 

THE  day  has  departed,  and  far  in  the  west, 
The  sun  has  gone  down  in  his  chambers  of  rest ; 
The  earth  is  enwrapt  in  her  mantle  of  night, 
And  the  gleam  of  the  fire-fly  breaks  on  the  sight. 

*  Widow  of  the  late  Bishop  Moore. 


66  THE     FIRE-FLY. 

How  mild,  unobtrusive,  and  transient  the  ray ! 
No  noise  or  confusion  is  heard  in  their  play ; 
Now  backward,  now  forward,  incessant  they  veer, 
As  gayly  they  move  in  their  shining  career. 

Thou  wonder  of  childhood  —  mysterious  light ! 
How  welcome  thy  glow,  in  the  darkness  of  night ! 
A  spark  evanescent,  —  a  beam  of  the  sun,  — 
Or  a  wandering  star  when  the  day-light  is  done. 

Now  low  on  the  grass,  and  now  high  in  the  trees, 
They  part,  intermingle,  and  float  on  the  breeze  ; 
How  voiceless  the  music  that  guides  them  along  I 
'Tis  nature's  thanksgiving,  —  'tis  silence  of  song. 

If  thus  such  a  poor,  insignificant  fly, 
Can  honour  the  name  of  the  Holy  and  high, 
Oh  what  does  He  ask  of  the  souls  He  has  given, 
To  shine  evermore  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ? 
Rhinebeck,  July  15,  1833. 


THE   MEADOW-LARK. 

BRIGHT  is  the  sky,  and  the  breezes  are  blowing ; 
Earth  in  the  sunshine  is  joyous  and  gay  : 
See  from  his  nest  how  the  meadow-lark  rises,  — 
Hark  !  as  triumphant  he  carols  the  lay. 

Not  in  the  covert,  far,  far  in  the  green  wood, 
And  scarce  on  the  bough,  of  his  warbling  we  hear; 
But  where  the  swain  at  his  labour  is  plying, 
Hastes  he  with  music,  the  moments  to  cheer. 

Down  in  the  field,  where  the  red-blossom'd  clover, 
At  morn  and  at  evening  is  bent  with  the  dew,  — 
Lonely  his  mate,  till,  as  homeward  returning, 
She  hails  him  :  — '  Bob  Lincoln !'  —  sweet  Bob,  is 
it  you  ? 

Say,  —  as  thy  song  is  a  stranger  to  sorrow,  — 
Say,  does  thy  bosom  ne'er  heave  with  a  sigh  ? 
Where  dost  thou  flee  when  the  mower  is  coming  T 
Where  dost  thou  hide  when  the  tempest  is  nigh  ? 


58  DESPONDENCY. 

Sure  as  I  hear  thee,  my  heart  is  misgiving, 
That  often  in  silence  'tis  thine  to  endure  :  — 
Sharp  is  the  thorn  where  the  roses  are  sweetest ; 
Deep  is  the  spring  when  its  waters  are  pure. 

Oh  that  like  thee,  in  the  way  of  my  duty, 
I  still  may  go  forward,  —  nor  vainly  repine 
That  others  are  wiser,  or  richer,  or  greater ; 
Whatever  their  lot,  be  contented  with  mine. 


DESPONDENCY. 

As  pensive,  late  I  wander'd, 

Beside  the  willow  shore, 
Deep  musing  on  the  days  gone  by, 

And  friends  I  met  no  more,  — 

With  sadness,  memory's  pages 
Were  ponder'd  o'er  again, 

Till  thus  the  silent  murmur 
Re-echo'd  back  the  strain  :  — 

The  dreams  of  youth  are  over; 
There's  nothing  left  but  gloom, — 


DESPONDENCY.  59 

A  weight  of  slow-consuming  care, 
That  sinks  me  to  the  tomb. 

My  heart  has  lost  its  feeling, 

And  like  some  leaden  sea, 
Where  every  breeze  may  play  in  vain, 

Is  fix'd  immovably. 

As  backward,  o'er  life's  journey, 
The  inquiring  glance  is  thrown,  — 

How  few,  of  all  its  vanish'd  hours, 
A  joy  unmix'd  have  known! 

And  haply,  if  the  book  of  fate 

Was  now  unclos'd  to  me, 
The  mystic  leaves  would  only  tell 

Of  age  and  penury ! 

When  sudden  o'er  those  waters 

The  sound  of  music  stole,  — 
Low  whisper'd,  from  a  '  still  small  voice,' 

That  reach'd  the  inmost  soul  — 

. 

*  And  wherefore  thus  repining, 
Thou  child  of  earth?'  it  cried,  — 

Know'st  not  who,  from  thy  earliest  hour, 
Has  been  thy  friend  and  guide  ? 


60  DESPONDENCY. 

Has  borne  thee,  as  on  eagle's  wing, 

E'en  to  the  present  day, 
And  pour'd  upon  thy  infant  thought 

The  intellectual  ray  ? 

'Tis  his  to  choose  thy  paths  for  thee  ; 

Would'st  thou  His  power  withstand, 
Who  holds  the  lightning  in  His  grasp, 

The  thunder  in  His  hand  1 

Then  hush  this  vain  repining, 
Nor  let  one  sigh  intrude,  — 

Requiting  still  the  favours  given, 
With  base  ingratitude.' 

Abash'd,  and  meekly  bowing, 

I  strove  to  kiss  the  rod, 
Confess  his  dispensations  just, 

And  own  the  hand  of  God. 


TO  A  SINGING  BIRD. 

HUSH,  hush  that  lay  of  gladness, 

It  fills  my  heart  with  pain, 

But  touch  some  note  of  sadness, 

Some  melancholy  strain, 

That  tells  of  days  departed, 

Of  hopes  forever  flown  ; 

Some  golden  dream  of  other  years, 

To  riper  age  unknown. 

The  captive,  bow'd  in  sadness, 

Impatient  to  be  free, 

• 
Might  call  that  lay  of  gladness 

The  voice  of  liberty ;  — 
Again  the  joyous  carol, 
Warm  gushing,  peals  along, 
As  if  thy  very  latest  breath 
Would  spend  itself  in  song. 

Oft  as  I  hear  those  tones  of  thine, 
Will  thoughts  like  these  intrude ; 
*  If  once  compared,  thy  lot  with  mine, 
How  cold  my  gratitude. 
6 


62  THE     HUMMING-BIRD. 

Though  gloom,  or  sunshine,  mark  the  hours, 

Thy  bosom,  ne'ertheless, 

Will  pour,  as  from  its  inmost  fount, 

The  tide  of  thankfulness.' 


THE  HUMMING-BIRD. 

CEASE,  cease  thy  fluttering,  hapless  thing ; 
Nor  vainly  beat  thy  silken  wing,  — 
A  moment  stay,  no  false  alarms, 
While  I  survey  thy  wond'rous  charms. 

Behold  the  rainbow's  varied  dyes, 
Or  peacock's  train  of  countless  eyes,  — 
Their  blended  hues  have  fall'n  on  thee, 
Thou  little  feather'd  brilliancy. 

Thy  long  and  slender  beak,  how  true, 

To  sip  at  morn  the  early  dew, 

Or  pass,  with  epicurean  taste, 

From  flower  to  flower,  with  eager  haste. 

How  skilfully  thine  eyes  are  set, 

So  small,  they  seem  like  specks  of  jet ; 


THE      HUMMING-BIRD.  63 

Thy  legs,  thy  feet,  no  tongue  can  tell 
How  curious,  yet  how  suitable. 

Can  fields  in  snowy  covering  drest, 
Compare  with  this,  thy  nether  vest ; 
So  stainless,  pure,  so  soft  and  white, 
Of  all  thy  charms,  most  exquisite  ? 

Wherefore  dost  thou  suspend  thy  breath,* 
And  mimic  all  the  forms  of  death?  — 
There,  bright  dissembler,  thou  art  free  ; 
Go,  seek  thy  nest  in  yonder  tree. 

Perchance,  even  now,  thy  little  mate 
Is  trembling,  doubtful  of  thy  fate  ; 
And  listening  with  an  anxious  ear 
The  buz,  —  buz  of  thy  wings  to  hear. 

When  from  its  Maker's  forming  hand, 
Up  rose  this  globe  of  sea  and  land, 
He  peopled  forest,  air,  and  flood, 
And  then  pronounced  them, '  very  good.' 

*  The  writer  has  heard,  that  there  are  no  less  than  sixteen  dif- 
ferent species  of  the  Humming-Bird  ;  she  has  examined  several 
that  were  as  unlike  as  possible  in  point  of  colour,  yet  each  feign- 
ing itself  dead  when  taken. 


64  FRIENDSHIP* 

Thy  like  were  there,  thou  beauteous  thing* 
In  snowy  vest  and  burnish'd  wing  ;  — 
Perfection's  self,  without  alloy, 
To  join  the  general  burst  of  joy* 


FRIENDSHIP. 

TO    MISS    B.    OF   W. 

WHO  but  has  seen  toward  the  close  of  day, 
The  spider  wend  his  solitary  way ; 
Now  quick  advance,  now  pause,  as  if  to  rest ;  — 
As  hope,  or  fear,  alternate  mov'd  his  breast  1 
Small  courage  his,  to  ply  the  arduous  toil, 
Who  never  once  has  known  the  approving  smile  ; 
Yet  in  perspective  sees  with  longing  eye, 
The  corniced  ceiling,  and  the  unwary  fly. 

That  goal  attain'd  within  some  hall  or  room, 
Despite  the  unwelcome  foot,  the  horrid  broom  — 
His  skill  is  summon'd,  all  his  powers  combine 
To  spread  the  lure,  and  draw  the  filmy  line. 

Oh,  could  the  minstrel  like  this  abject  thing, 
Rise,  boldly  rise,  on  fancy's  buoyant  wing ; 


FRIENDSHIP.  65 


Spurn  each  impediment  that  bars  the  way, 
And  soar,  and  sing  with  those  of  earlier  day  ; 
Would  all  their  energies  were  now  her  own, 
To  seize  the  lyre,  and  wake  its  melting  tone  ; 
Assume  the  task,  by  Anna's  wish  assign'd, 
With  fears  all  scatter'd  to  the  idle  wind. 

The  theme  enjoin'd  was  Friendship,  —  mystic  tie !  — 
Heart  drawn  to  heart,  by  kindred  sympathy  ; 
Cement  of  spirits,  bond  of  soul  to  soul, 
Though  widely  severed  as  the  oceans  roll, 
Wills  that  reciprocate,  thought  echoing  thought, 
Each  selfish  end  unheeded  or  forgot. 

* 

There  is  a  picture,  hold  it  up  to  view,  — 
The  very  one  immortal  Goldsmith  drew  ; 
But  stern  of  feature,  lowering  in  the  eye  ; 
There  lurks  suspicion,  interest,  policy ; 
The  whole  a  shadow,  still  pursued  in  vain,  — 
A  thing  of  nought,  a  phantom  of  the  brain. 

Year  after  year  the  traveller  sees  display'd, 
Pompeii's  depths,  and  Herculaneum's  bed ; 
Where  as  to  life,  the  marble  starts  to  view, 
Where  glows  the  canvass,  still  to  nature  true  ; 
(The  arts  triumphant  through  those  scenes  appear, 
Graces  and  passions  all  embodied  here,) 
6* 


66  FRIENDSHIP. 

But  scarce  an  outline  of  that  radiant  form, 
Hand-maid  of  mercy,  angel  in  the  storm. 

Does  language  fail,  or  has  it  e'er  expressed 

How  friendship  glows  within  the  youthful  breast  ? 

That  early  morn,  whose  sky  is  ever  bright, 

Each  distant  hill  is  ting'd  with  rosy  light ; 

Hope  mounts  her  car,  the  steeds  by  fancy  driven, 

Wild  as  the  Indian  sybil's  dream  of  heaven.* 

When  sudden  broke  upon  her  raptur'd  eye, 

By  nature's  light,  the  dim  futurity ; 

Where  boundless  prairies  in  unwithering  bloom, 

Wrere  fann'd  by  zephyrs  laden  with  perfume  ; 

Where  ample  forests  wav'd  their  heads  on  high, 

Their  lofty  heads,  which  seem  to  sweep  the  sky, 

With  mighty  lakes,  and  streams  translucent  clear, 

Whose  murmuring  sounds  shall  charm  the  hunter's  ear, 

The  ills  of  time  may  there  distract  no  more, 

Nor  foe  imprint  a  footstep  on  the  shore. 

High  noon  is  past,  the  sun  declines  amain, 
And  lengthening  shadows  flit  across  the  plain  ;  — 
Seest  thou  that  form,  slow-moving,  spent  with  care, 
An  aged  man,  a  man  with  hoary  hair  ? 

*  See  note  A. 


FRIENDSHIP.  67 

'  V   "1*'i  • 

Small  trace  is  left  of  aught  that  might  betray 
The  smiling  vision  of  the  early  day  ; 
Yet  may  experience  to  our  aid  impart 
Some  master-key  to  search  the  human  heart. 
My  father,  tell  us,  —  thou  of  many  years,  — 
Does  friendship  sojourn  in  this  vale  of  tears  — 
Or  fled  long  since,  beyond  complaints  and  sighs, 
To  seek  a  refuge  in  her  native  skies  ? 

I  fain  would  answer  thus,  (the  reverend  sire,) 
And  solve  the  question  to  thy  heart's  desire ; 
Yet  such  the  task,  that  solve  it  as  ye  will, 
The  question  given,  remains  a  problem  still. 
Should  doubts  arise,  (and  doubt  obscures  the  mind, 
The  judgement  erring,  and  the  reason  blind,) 
Let  charity,  with  influence  all  benign, 

And  truth  celestial,  on  the  darkness  shine, 

•    -    ' 

Warm  every  heart,  enlighten  every  eye  ; 
Disperse  the  clouds,  and  cause  the  mist  to  fly  ; 
Then  recognis'd  that  form  of  heavenly  birth, 
Is  seen  in  converse,  with  the  sons  of  earth, 
From  life's  lirst  hour,  her  presence  cheers  the  gloom, 
To  that  which  bears  us  to  the  silent  tomb. 
In  days  of  sadness,  days  which  come  to  all, 
From  lowliest  cottage  to  the  stately  hall ; 


68  FRIENDSHIP. 

When  gathering  blackness  seems  to  shroud  the  sky, 

And  fairest  prospects  all  in  ruin  lie. 

No  door  of  hope,  no  succour,  no  redress, 

The  springs  of  pleasure  turn'd  to  bitterness  ; 

Who  flies  to  comfort,  minister,  console, 

Dispensing  balm,  to  heal  the  wounded  soul. 

If  sickness  prostrate,  whose  that  noiseless  tread, 

Those  acts  of  kindness  by  affliction's  bed, 

Untold  as  dew-drops  in  the  morning  ray, 

Or  stars  that  glimmer  in  the  milky  way  ; 

The  air,  the  tone,  the  well-remember' d  form  ?  — 

'Tis  she,  'tis  she,  the  angel  in  the  storm. 

Imperfect  still,  the  semblance  incomplete ; 
'Tis  interest  prompts,  the  casuist  may  repeat ; 
Well,  let  it  pass,  we'll  turn  the  inquiring  eye, 
To  search  some  record  of  the  years  gone  by. 

Peace  to  your  slumbers,  red-men  of  the  west; 
Peace  to  your  ashes  !  sleep  and  take  your  rest : 
Some  future  bard  for  you  shall  wake  the  string, 
Some  tuneful  Ossian,  yet  unborn,  shall  sing 
How  Montezuma  reign'd  in  all  his  pride  ; 
How  Xicotencal,*  how  Tecumseh  died, 

•NoteB. 


FRIENDSHIP.  69 

The  chieftain  Philip,  dispossess'd,  exil'd ;     • 
Chas'd  like  the  bear,  or  panther  of  the  wild ; 
The  pallid  race  enjoy'd  his  father's  land, 
His  more  than  brother,*  captive  in  their  hand  ; 
Whom  still  they  seek,  by  stratagem,  to  prove, 
If  threats,  or  bribes,  or  aught  beside  can  move. 

I  see  him  now,  as  in  that  hour  he  stood, 

Of  dauntless  mien,  a  ranger  of  the  wood. 

44  He  wavers  not,"  his  pale  accusers  say  ; 

44  Friends,  fellow-soldiers,  hasten,  lead  the  way." 

44  One  moment,  then,"  a  milder  spirit  cried, 

44  A  single  moment  shall  his  fate  decide." 

Chief  of  the  Narragansets,  lend  an  ear  ; 

Hear  once  for  all,  and  ponder  as  ye  hear 

That  renegade,  the  heir  of  Massasouit ; 

Thou  know'st  his  haunts,  disclose  his  last  retreat. 

Outlaw'd,  deserted,  whither  has  he  fled, — 

What  shadowy  forest  screens  the  wanderer's  head  1 

What  dark  ravine  conceals  him  from  the  view  — 

What  savage  hut  to  fallen  greatness  true? 

What  cavern  hides  him  in  its  gloom  profound? 

What  deep  morasses  hem  the  warrior  round  ? 

Speak  but  the  word,  to  reason's  voice  incline, 

And  honour,  life,  and  liberty  are  thine." 

*  Note  C. 


70  FRIENDSHIP. 

"  Arelhese  your  terms,  or  do  ye  but  deride  1 
I  heed  them  not,"  th'  indignant  chief  replied. 
"  Oh  bear  me  hence,  ere  I  have  wrought  disgrace, 
By  speech  unworthy  of  my  name,  or  race  ; 
Ere  yet  this  heart,  now  firm,  unknown  to  fear, 
Might  cling  to  life,  might  seek  to  linger  here 
Without  regret,  without  a  murmuring  sigh  ; 
True  to  my  friends,  my  country,  let  me  die." 

This,  this  is  friendship,  ore-refin'd,  complete, 
The  seven-times  tried  in  purifying  heat, 
Which  chance,  nor  change,  nor  aught  may  e'er  divide, 
Till  death  itself  congeals  the  purple  tide. 

Thus  in  some  bay,  when  warring  winds  arise, 
The  stately  vessel  safe  at  anchor  lies ; 
Though  cauldron-like  may  boil  the  foaming  deep, 
And  maddening  surges  o'er  the  bulwarks  sweep  ; 
Her  spars  unmov'd,  her  planks  are  still  secure, 
The  anchor  steadfast,  and  the  cable  sure. 

Or  like  some  oak,  that  lifts  its  giant  form 
Amid  the  peltings  of  the  angry  storm  ; 
Though  clouds  incessant  pour  from  day  to  day, 
And  vivid  lightnings  through  the  branches  play, 


FRIENDSHIP.  71 

Its  strength's    increas'd,   the   boughs   more   widely 

spread, 
And  roots  strike  deeper  in  their  native  bed. 

Or  mark  when  winter  desolates  the  scene, 

til1 
The  pine  still  cloth'd  in  everlasting  green  ; 

Not  as  when  summer  led  her  joyous  train, 

The  smiling  hours,  along  the  enamel'd  plain, 

The  earth  emparadis'd  in  flowers  and  song  ; 

Then  last  in  beauty  of  the  verdant  throng  ; 

But  now  when  felt,  when  seen  the  withering  power, 

Her  leaf  is  brightest  in  the  adverse  hour. 

Perversion  strange  !  aspiring  man  is  given 
To  seek  below,  a  bliss  reserv'd  in  heaven  ; 
The  unmingled  cup,  which  angels  taste  alone, 
And  blessed  ones  who  bow  before  the  throne  ; 
Here  prone  to  error,  as  the  sparks  to  fly, 
On  all  is  written  mutability. 
Not  so  above — joy,  joy  beyond  compare ; 
The  pure  in  heart  shall  hold  communion  there. 
Earth's  fading  glories  scarce  deserve  a  name, 
Her  all  in  all,  of  pleasure,  wealth  and  fame  ; 
The  unclouded  vision,  seeing  eye  to  eye, 
As  friendship  reigns  through  all  eternity. 


THE  WHIP-POOR-WILL, 

THE  ring-dove's  note,  in  eastern  climes, 
May  wing  with  speed  the  sultry  hours, 
And  England's  boasted  nightingale 
May  charm  with  song  her  native  bowers  ;  - 

Yet  there  is  one,  and  only  one, 
Whose  note  is  dearer  far  to  me  ; 
Though  his  is  not  the  gorgeous  plume, 
Nor  his  the  voice  of  harmony. 

He  shuns  the  crowded  haunts  of  men, 
And  hies  to  forests  far  away,  — 
Or  seeks  some  deep,  secluded  vale, 
To  pour  his  solitary  lay,  — 

Or,  haply  at  some  cottage  door, 
At  fall  of  night,  when  all  is  still, 
The  rustic  inmates  pause  to  hear 
The  gentle  cry  of  '  Whip-poor-will.' 


• 


THEALBUM.  73 

How  often,  in  my  childish  glee, 
At  evening  hour  my  steps  have  stray'd, 
To  seek  him  in  his  lone  retreat, 
Beneath  the  close  embowering  shade. 

With  beating  heart  and  wary  tread, 
I  stretch'd  my  hand  to  seize  the  prey,  — 
When,  quick  as  thought,  the  minstrel  rose, 
Blithe,  warbling  as  he  sped  away. 

He  flies  the  abodes  of  luxury, 

Nor  heeds  the  frown,  nor  courts  the  smile, 

But  nightly  seeks  the  rural  scene, 

And  sings  to  rest  the  sons  of  toil. 

Rhinebeck,  Nov.  15,  1833. 


THE    ALBUM. 

TO  MISS  Y.  M.  L N  OF  N.  Y. 

WILL  she,  the  Muse's  well  known  friend, 
Awhile  my  simple  strain  attend,  — 
She  who  herself  inspired  the  lay, 
Who  banish'd  all  my  fears  away, 

7 


74  THEALBUM. 

Then  led  me  on,  and  bade  me  stand 
Among  the  poets  of  the  land,* 
And  gave  me  to  inscribe  my  name 
With  theirs  upon  the  scroll  of  fame  ? 
Spell-bound  I  stood,  —  again  she  spoke, 
And  with  a  smile  the  spell  she  broke. 

Had  I  a  portion  of  the  fire 
That  streams  along  Montgomery's  lyre, 
Or  his  who  held  the  plough  in  hand, 
The  immortal  bard  of  Scotia's  land,  — 
How  would  my  heart  delight  to  raise 
Some  lasting  tribute  to  her  praise ! 

<r 

I've  turn'd  these  pages  o'er  and  o'er,f 

And  still  admire  them  more  and  more  ; 

All  excellent  they  stand  confess'd, — 

But  still  I  like  the  Clover  best, — 

For  hie  me  wheresoe'r  I  will, 

That  little  clover  haunts  me  still. 

Not  Hemans'  self,  beyond  the  main, 

Nor  Sigourney's  melodious  strain, 

Nor  Gould,  with  taste  and  sense  combin'd, 

To  rouse  and  captivate  the  mind, 

*  Contributors  to  the  Album, 
t  The  pages  of  the  Album. 


THEALBUM.  75 

E'er  touch' d  my  heart  with  half  the  power 
Of  this  same  little  purple  flower. 
How  many  a  reckless  foot  will  tread 
Upon  its  unassuming  head, 
Unmindful  of  the  sweets  that  lie 
Conceal'd  from  every  careless  eye  ! 
Methought  its  fate  was  told  too  well, 
As  fast  and  free  the  tear-drops  fell. 
Oh  what  a  rich  regale  is  here, 
To  please  the  eye,  to  charm  the  ear, 
To  melt  the  hard,  the  coldest  move, 
And  raise  the  mind  to  things  above. 

'Tis  thus  the  bee,  delighted,  strays 

Through  all  the  garden's  flowery  maze  ; 

Here  the  delicious  nectar  sips, 

And  there  the  slight  proboscis  dips,  — 

Inhaling  still  the  sweet  perfume, 

As  hastening  on  from  bloom  to. bloom. 

'Tis  thus,  within  some  shady  grove, 
That  contemplation  loves  to  rove, 
Where  birds  of  every  note  and  plume 
Have  built  their  nests  and  fix'd  their  home  ; 
While  every  bush  and  every  tree 
Is  vocal  with  their  minstrelsy,  — 


76  THEALBUM. 

Each  tuneful  warbler  of  the  spray 
Chaunting  its  own  peculiar  lay. 

*Tis  thus  that  when  some  casket  rare, 
In  which  Goleonda's  treasures  are, 
Is  open'd  to  the  stranger's  sight,  — 
Amazed  he  stands, — all,  all  so  bright, — 
Now  smitten  by  the  diamond's  rays, 
And  now  the  beauteous  Emerald's  blaze,  - 
The  topaz  with  its  golden  hue, 
And  sapphire  of  cerulean  blue,  — 
From  this  to  that  his  mind  is  toss'd, 
Amidst  the  bright  confusion  lost. 

How  beautifully  here  display'd, 
The  mingled  hues  of  light  and  shade !  * 
Old  Nature  in  her  youthful  dress, 
With  looks  of  love  and  tenderness. 
Say,  did  the  artist  lift  his  eye 
Beneath  Capri's  enchanting  sky  ? 
Or  on  Loch  Lomond's  margin  stand, 
To  shadow  forth  the  mountain  land  ? 
Or  on  the  Kaatskill's  topmost  height, 
With  all  the  Hudson  full  in  sight, 

*  The  landscapes  in  the  Album* 


THEALBUM.  77 

Watching  at  morn  the  sun's  first  ray, 
Or  evening's  splendours  fade  away  1 
Oh  what  a  lovely  sight  to  see, 
From  Claremont*  down  to  Ellerslie,| 
That  mighty  stream,  broad,  deep  and  clear, 
Still  rolling  on  from  year  to  year,  — 
Type  of  life's  current,  as  it  glides 
To  mingle  with  the  ocean  tides. 

Lo  yonder  fleet,  whose  crowded  sail 
Spread  the  white  bosom  to  the  gale, 
As  onward  through  the  dashing  spray, 
By  commerce  urged,  they  win  their  way ! 
Again  behold  !  —  all  vanish'd  now,  — 
The  mast,  the  keel,  the  stately  prow,  — 
Not  one  is  there,  nor  trace,  nor  stain 
Is  left  upon  the  liquid  plain. 

So  pass  the  sons  of  earth  away,  — 
A  moment  seen, —  then  where  are  they]  — 
Aye,  where  are  they  ?  —  how  brief  a  space, 
And  we  shall  see  them  face  to  face,  — 
Among  departed  shades  shall  stand, 
And  hail  them  in  the  spirit's  land. 

*  Seat  of  the  late  Chancellor  Livingston, 
f  Seat  of  James  Thompson,  Esq. 
7* 


78  THE    ALBUM. 

_ 

111  youthful  prime,  how  blest  are  they 
Who  walk  in  wisdom's  narrow  way,  — 
Whose  heart  is  fix'd, —  whose  trust  for  aid 
Is  on  the  great  Redeemer  laid  ! 
The  Christian  graces  there  we  see, 
With  faith,  and  hope,  and  charity,  — 
While  showers  of  blessing  aye  distil, 
Like  early  dew  on  Zion's  hill. 

Should  joyous  light  their  pathway  bless, 
They  see  the  sun  of  righteousness,  — 
Or  darksome  clouds  their  sky  deform, 
They  know  their  covert  in  the  storm  : 
Whate'er  betide,  their  trust  is  sure,  — 
The  '  Rock  of  Ages '  must  endure ;  • — 
Still  on  his  arm  they  cast  their  care, 
Who  guides  them  down  to  hoary  hair, 
Till  on  th'  extremest  verge  they  stand, 
Awaiting  but  their  Lord's  command 
To  quit  the  scene  of  mortal  strife, 
And  calmly  enter  into  life. 

Rhinebeck,  Sept.  1835. 


NAPOLEON'S   TOMB. 

The  following  reflections  were  suggested  to  the  writer,  on  see- 
ing a  little  marble  representation  of  the  tomb  of  Napoleon  Buona- 
parte, with  this  inscription : 

Isle  Sainte  Helene,  le  5  Mai,  1821. 

IN  St.  Helena's  lonely  isle, 

Begirt  by  ocean's  wave, 
The  warrior-monarch  laid  him  down, 

To  slumber  in  his  grave. 

But  ere  the  icy  hand  of  death 

Had  closed  that  restless  eye, 
Ambition  call'd  her  numerous  sons 

To  see  their  brother  die  : 

Yet  not  from  legislative  halls, 

Or  tented  fields  alone, 
'  Nor  where  the  classic  student  roves, 
To  mark  some  sculptured  stone  : 

But  they  who  'mong  the  yellow  sheaves 
Of  autumn  gayly  sing, 


80  NAPOLEON'S   TO  MB. 

And  they  beneath  whose  ponderous  axe 
The  mountain  echoes  ring : 

And  they  who  delve  the  darksome  mine, 

Or  sail  the  stormy  sea, 
Far  scattered  by  the  winds  of  heaven, — 

That  wide  fraternity : 

Behold  them  all  assembled  now, 

And  round  the  hero  press'd  ! 
Ambition,  standing  in  the  midst, 

Her  favourite  thus  address'd  :  — 

"  What  though  thy  beams,  at  noontide  hour, 
Are  quench'd  in  darkest  night  ? 

Thy  fame  shall  shine  a  polar  star,  — 
Thy  deeds  a  beacon  light. 

Alone  among  the  sons  of  men, 

A  wonder  of  the  age,  — 
The  glory  of  thy  bright  career 

Shall  swell  th'  historic  page." 

Full  well  he  knew  the  syren's  voice, 

Oft  heard,  in  former  hours, 
In  Malmaison's  sequester'd  shades, 

Compiegne's  enchanting  bowers. 


NAPOLEON'S  TOMB.  81 

But  now  those  once  bewildering  tones 

Have  lost  their  magic  power,  — 
Nor  can  the  memory  of  the  past 

Illume  that  fearful  hour. 

In  vain  St.  Bernard's  towering  steep 

Is  brought  before  his  eyes,  — 
In  vain  the  Egyptian  pyramids 

In  silent  grandeur  rise. 

Nor  charms  Marengo's  battle-field 

With  all  its  proud  array,  — 
The  martial  pomp  and  chivalry 

Of  that  victorious  day. 

Where,  round  him  far  as  eye  could  reach, 

Roll'd  on  a  living  sea, 
Dependent  on  his  word  alone 

To  guide  its  destiny. 

What  shouts  are  those  that  rend  the  air, 

Amid  the  cannon's  distant  roar? 
The  conqueror,  deck'd  in  royal  robes, 

Is  hail'd  PEmpereur ! 

Away,  away,  earth's  pageantry ! 
Her  brightest  gems  are  dim, 


82  NAPOLEON'S   TOMB. 

And  glittering  wealth,  and  power,  and  fame, 
How  worthless  now  to  him  ! 

What  did  this  universe  contain 

That  he  might  not  enjoy  ? 
Yet,  in  contentment,  far  behind 

The  humblest  shepherd  boy. 

Though  fortune,  in  capricious  hour, 
Unlock'd  her  boundless  store, 

Yet,  with  the  Macedonian  chief, 
He  could  have  wept  for  more. 

Now  listen,  all  ambition's  sons,  — 
'Tis  reason's  voice  that  cries  : 

A  captive  on  a  lonely  rock, 
The  mighty  conqueror  dies. 

As  to  the  gray-haired  mariner 

Saint  Helen's  isle  appears, 
How  will  he  tell  the  mournful  tale 

Among  his  own  compeers  ! 

And,  sighing,  view  the  height  o'er  height 

Of  rocks  stupendous  pil'd, 
As  if  to  form  a  monument 

Above  ambition's  child. 


MRS.     HANNAH    MOORE.  83 

Thou  source  of  pure,  unbounded  love  ! 

Bestow  this  gift  on  me  : 
A  calm  contentment  with  my  lot, 

Whatever  that  lot  may  be. 

Rhinebeck,  Aug.  10, 1833. 


. 
MRS.   HANNAH  MOORE. 

On  seeing  the  death  of  this  most  excellent  lady  in  the  news- 
papers of  the  day. 

FRIEND  of  my  youth  !  —  and  hast  thou  fled? 

And  art  thou  numbered  with  the  dead  ? 

Has  the  grim  monster  laid  thee  low, 

As  round  him  dealing  blow  on  blow  ? 

Ah !  rather  say,  a  Father's  love 

Has  calPd  her  to  his  house  above :  — 

Ah  !  rather  say  an  angel-band 

Has  borne  her  to  a  blessed  land, 

The  welcome  plaudit  there  to  win, 

Of  *  good  and  faithful,'  enter  in. 

Her  valued  life  has  pass'd  away, 
Like  one  long,  useful,  summer's  day ; 


84  MRS.    HANNAH    MOORE* 

And  though  her  sun  on  earth  has  set, 
The  cloudless  skies  are  glowing  yet,  — 
Sure  promise  of  its  bright  return, — 
Precursor  of  a  glorious  morn. 

From  childhood's  hour  to  riper  age 
I've  read  her  truth-illumin'd  page, — 
Have  wept  o'er  Yamba's  sorrows  free, 
And  por'd  o'er  Sensibility,  — 
Have  learnt  the  Poacher's  tale  by  heart  — 
To  mimic  Tawney  Rachel's  part ; 
Dear,  thoughtless  days,  —  forever  flown  ! 
Gone  like  a  dreamy  vision.,  gone. 

While  time  endures,  the  Shepherd's  fame 

Must  still  perpetuate  her  name, 

And  Parley's  simple  tale  appear 

To  warn  the  soul  of  danger  near,  — 

The  Farmers,  many  a  winter's  night, 

Be  read  with  ever  new  delight ; 

Nor  Brown  and  Stock,  nor  Dan  and  Jane, 

Nor  Patient  Joe,  be  heard  in  vain. 

Here  vice  in  native  garb  is  seen,  — 

There  virtue,  of  celestial  mien  ; 

Precept  on  precept  wisely  given, 

To  point  the  inquiring  mind  to  heaven. 


CHRISTMAS. 

LET  us  chaunt  the  solemn  lay,  — 
Let  us  celebrate  the  day,  — 
Hail,  with  joy,  the  auspicious  morn 
When  the  Son  of  Man  was  born. 

Eastern  sages,  journeying  far, 
Saw  ye  not  that  beauteous  star 
Shed  its  brightest,  purest  ray, 
Where  the  King  of  Glory  lay  ? 

Shepherds  on  Judea's  plain, 
Heard  ye  not  the  blissful  strain, 
When  the  messengers  of  light 
Broke  the  silence  of  the  night  1 

Babe  of  Beth'lem,  lowly  laid  ! 
Angels  hover  round  thy  bed, 
Pausing  o'er  the  tuneful  lyre, 
As  they  wonder  and  admire. 

8 


86  CHRISTMAS. 

Hope  of  Israel !  welcome  thou  — 
Every  tribe  to  thee  shall  bow  ; 
Every  tongue  thy  right  proclaim  ; 
Every  land  adore  thy  name. 

Prince  of  Peace  !  thy  reign  shall  be 
Wide  as  earth  from  sea  to  sea ; 
Where  is  now  nor  love  nor  fear, 
There  thy  glorious  standard  rear. 

Where  the  western  wilds  have  lain, 
Ages  bound  in  error's  chain, 
There,  thy  saving  power  they  prove,  — 
There,  they  chaunt  redeeming  love. 

Ethiopia's  vale  is  riven  : 
Lo,  she  lifts  her  hands  to  heaven  ! 
See  her  raise  the  imploring  eye  ! 
Hear  her  sable  offspring  cry  :  — 

"  Pour,  oh  pour  the  matchless  strain, 
Sounded  once  on  Judah's  plain  ! 
Sweetest  song  since  time  began  : 
4  Peace  OH  earth,  —  good  will  to  man  I9  " 


GOOD-FRIDA1. 

THE  scene  is  fresh  before  us, 
When  Jesus  drained  the  cup, 
As  new  the  day  comes  o'er  us, 
When  He  was  offer' d  up  :  — 
The  veil  in  sunder  rending, 
The  types  and  shadows  flee, 
While  heaven  and  earth  are  bending 
Their  gaze  on  Calvary. 

Should  mortal  dare  in  numbers, 
Where  angels,  trembling,  stand  ? 
Or  wake  the  harp  that  slumbers 
In  flaming  seraph's  hand  1 

Then  tell  the  wond'rous  story 
Where  rolls  salvation's  wave, 
And  give  him  all  the  glory, 
Who  came  the  lost  to  save. 


THE   SOLDIER'S   GRATE.* 

IN  Gallia's  sunny  fields, 

Where  blooms  the  eglantine, 
And  where  luxuriant  clusters  bend 

The  fruitful  vine,  — 

The  youth  to  manhood  rose  ; 

('Tis  fancy  tells  the  tale  ;) 
His  step  was  swift  as  mountain  deer 

That  skims  the  vale. 

And  his  the  eagle  glance 

Which  told  perception  keen, 
4  Of  will  to  do  and  soul  to  dare,' 

Deep  fix'd  within. 

- 

Perchance  a  mother's  love, 
A  father's  tender  care, 

*  The  grave  here  spoken  of  was  pointed  out  to  the  writer  as 
the  final  resting-place  of  a  French  officer:  —  a  single  mound,  with- 
out a  stone  to  mark  the  spot,  in  Rutland  county,  Vt. 


THE   SOLDIER'S  GRAVE.  89 

• 
_•  ^j^ '  • 

With  every  kindly  household  bond, 
Were  his  to  share. 

Perchance  the  darling  one, 

The  best  belov'd  was  he, 
Of  all  that  gather'd  round  the  hearth 

From  infancy. 

How  fair  life's  morn  to  him !  — 
The  world  was  blithe  and  gay,  — 

Hope,  beckoning  with  an  angel's  smile, 
Led  on  the  way. 

He  left  his  native  plain ; 

He  bade  his  home  farewell,  — 
And  she,  the  idol  of  his  heart, 

The  fair  Adele. 

Though  sad  the  parting  hour, 

What  ardour  fix'd  his  breast, 
To  view  the  streams,  to  tread  the  soil, 

Far  in  the  west ! 

From  where  the  Huron's  wave 

First  greets  the  ruddy  light, 
To  where  Superior,  in  its  glow, 

Lies  calm  and  bright,  — 
8* 


90  THE   SOLDIER'S  GRAVE. 

Where  rose  the  forest  deep, 

Where  stretched  the  giant  shore, 

From  Del-Fuego's  utmost  bound 
To  Labrador. 

How  many  a  gallant  ship 

Since  then  has  cross'd  the  sea, 

Deep  freighted  from  the  western  world  !  — 
But  where  is  he  I 

Oh  ne'er  beside  that  hearth 
The  unbroken  ring  shall  meet, 

To  tell  th'  adventurous  tale,  or  join 
In  converse  sweet  [ 

For  in  that  stranger-land 

His  lonely  grave  is  seen, 
Where  northern  mountains  lift  their  heads 

In  fadeless  green. 

1835. 


;*V^  ,.; 

:-:   *  *  *'•''.*/  '•     *  '    ' 
THOUGHTS 

ON    PARTING  WITH    A    FRIEND. 

WITH  what  indifference  did  I  hear 
'."*  ;^f 

That  name,  when  first  it  met  my  ear ! 

'Twas  like  the  idly  passing  breeze, 

That  whispers  through  the  leafless  trees,  — 

Or  like  th'  impression  on  the  shore  — 

A  moment  seen,  then  seen  no  more. 

But  time  pass'd  on,  and  now  that  name 

Is  welcome  as  the  breath  of  fame, 

Or  as  the  earliest  flowers  of  spring, 

Or  voice  of  music  on  the  wing ; 

So  welcome  and  so  dear  to  me 

From  hence  that  name  shall  ever  be. 

1832. 


TEMPERANCE  ODE. 

» 

AGES  now  have  rolled  on  ages, 
Since  within  that  lonely  vale, 
Desolation  all  around  him, 
Stood  the  seer  of  Israel, 
Wrapt  in  vision,  — 
Led  by  power  unsearchable. 

Onward  moving,  Heaven-directed, 

Whereso'er  he  turns  his  eye  ; 

Still  on  either  hand  they  greet  him  — 

Wrecks  of  frail  humanity ;  — 

Hosts  unnumber'd, 

Void  of  life  around  him  lie. 

Thus  a  drear  unsightly  ruin, 
Darkly  shrouded  reason's  ray,  — 
Self-abandon'd,  sunk,  degraded, — 
Once  the  poor  inebriate  lay, 
Lost  to  feeling ; 
RuPd  by  habit's  iron  sway. 


TEMPERANCE    ODE.  93 

Heard  ye  not  that  wail  of  sorrow, 
Bursting  from  the  tortur'd  breast?  — 
Is  it  daughter,  wife,  or  mother, 
Thus  to  earth  by  anguish  pressed  ?  — 
Hope  extinguished,  — 
God  alone  can  tell  the  rest. 

He  who  sits  enthrori'd  forever, 
Heard  that  cry,  nor  heard  in  vain  ; 
Bending  o'er  that  silent  valley, 
Mercy  weeps  above  the  slain. 
Oh,  what  pleading ! 
Tenderest  pity  mov'd  the  strain. 

Hark !  a  rush !  a  sudden  trembling, 
Like  the  whirlwind  in  its  sweep  ;  — 
Lo  !  they  stand  a  mighty  army, 
Line  on  line,  in  phalanx  deep ! 
Slumbering  nations, 
Rousing  from  their  fatal  sleep. 

Here  with  firm  resolve  we  meet  you, 
Hand  and  heart,  and  soul  to  join, 
While  to  urge  the  glorious  conquest, 
All  our  energies  combine  ;  — 


94          A    TOWN    IN    DUTCHESS     COUNTY. 

Friend  of  sinners, 

Aid  us  by  thy  grace  divine. 

•• .-  • 

1835. 


A  TOWN   IN   DUTCHESS   COUNTY. 

MY  first  is  a  river,*  long  famous  in  story  ; 

It  flows  where  the  French  and  the  Germans  unite ; 
'Twas  ceded  to  France  in  the  days  of  her  glory  ; 

Though  now  it  is  German,  by  title  and  right. 

My  second  is  part  of  a  name,f  that  has  yielded 
The  incense  of  worth,  where  his  ashes  repose, 

Who  entered  the  wilderness,  planted,  and  builded  ; 
And  made  it  to  blossom  and  bud  as  the  rose. 

My  whole,  is  a  spot  on  the  face  of  creation, 
Where  industry  banishes  want  from  the  door  ; 

Where  the  axe,  and  the  plough,  and  the  mill-wheel  in 

motion, 
Bring  fulness  of  bread  to  the  poorest  of  poor. 

1834. 

*  Rhine.  f  Beekman, 


TO    THE   MOON. 

OH  how  I  love  to  see  thee  shine, 
Thou  witness  of  the  power  divine  ; 
I  love  thee  when  at  fall  of  even, 
Thy  silver  bow  appears  in  heaven  ; 
Thy  bright  companion  near  thy  side, 
All  sparkling  like  some  princely  bride  ; 
I  love  thee  when  thy  full  broad  light 
Is  seen  to  climb  the  eastern  height, 
Casting  its  mellow  radiance  free 
On  lowly  shed,  or  lofty  tree. 
I  love  thee  in  thy  midnight  reign, 
When  lighting  up  the  ethereal  plain  ; 
When  scarce  a  star  arrests  the  view 
Through  all  the  deep  unclouded  blue. 
And  still  how  lovely  dost  thou  seem, 
When  fading  in  the  morning  beam, 
As  orb  on  orb  exert  their  power 
To  cheer  thee  in  thy  waning  hour. 
How  pleas'd  the  sea-boy  hails  thy  light, 
As  toiling  through  the  stormy  night,  — 
Weary  and  wet  with  ocean  spray, 
When  parting  clouds  reveal  thy  ray. 


96  MOTHER'S    LAMENT. 

Vainly  the  muse  essays  to  sing  — 
Still  earthward  droops  her  feeble  wing. 
But  where  are  those  whose  happier  flight, 
Could  fearless  mount  the  azure  height ;  — 
Could  soar  among  the  golden  choirs, 
And  kindle  mid  celestial  fires  ? 

Behold  the  muse's  favourite  son, 
The  wise,  the  polish'd  Addison ; 
In  glowing  line,  'twas  his  to  paint 
The  shining  orbs,  the  firmament, 
And  rouse  the  contemplative  soul, 
"  To  hear  th#ir  music,  as  they  roll." 

1333. 


MOTHER'S   LAMENT.* 

FAIR  fleeting  vision,  swiftly  flown ; 
No  more  canst  thou  my  mind  employ ; 
With  thee  my  fondest  hopes  are  gone, 
And  wither'd  every  opening  joy. 

*  Written  in  family  affliction. 


REFLECTIONS.  97 

Oft  did  I  view  thy  infant  charms 
In  fancy's  mirror  beaming  bright, 
And  long'd  to  clasp  thee  in  my  arms, 
With  all  a  mother's  fond  delight. 

But  now  thy  form,  in  quiet  sleep, 
Lies  buried  in  the  silent  tomb, 
Regardless  of  the  eyes  that  weep, 
Or  hearts  that  mourn  thine  early  doom. 

Yet  when  the  last  loud  trump's  command, 
Shall  cause  thy  slumbering  dust  to  rise, 
Among  the  living  thou  shall  stand, 
To  claim  thy  seat  in  paradise. 


REFLECTIONS. 

"  For  I  know  that  thou  wilt  bring  me  to  death,  and  to  the  house 
appointed  for  all  living."  —  Job,  30  ch.,  23d  verse. 

How  soon  these  limbs  shall  rest  beneath  the  soil, 
And  summer  suns  no  more  for  me  shall  smile ; 
The  moon  no  more  for  me  shall  give  her  light, 
Nor  twinkling  stars  adorn  the  brow  of  night ; 
9 


98  REFLECTIONS. 

No  more  shall  spring  for  me  the  buds  unfold, 
Nor  autumn  wave  her  fields  of  ripening  gold  ; 
But  winter-winds  around  shall  wildly  rave, 
And  chant  their  requiem  o'er  my  silent  grave. 

But  where  shall  rest  the  never-dying  flame, 
The  living  soul  that  from  the  Almighty  came  ? 
See  on  life's  verge  the  trembling  spirit  stand, 
That  longs,  yet  fears  to  try  the  unknown  land. 
A  moment  pauses,  ere  she  plumes  her  wings 
To  seek  the  presence  of  the  King  of  kings. 
If  in  that  hour,  a  heaven-born  peace  shall  bless, 
And  thou  be  cloth'd  in  '  Jesus'  righteousness  ;' 
Strong  in  His  strength  who  bore  the  cross  for  thee, 
Strong  in  His  strength,  who  won  the  victory  ; 
Nor  doubt,  nor  fear,  shall  then  disturb  thy  breast, 
But  thou  shalt  rise  to  everlasting  rest. 

Rhinebeck,  June,  1834. 


THE   ETHIOPIAN   LILY. 

WHERE  Niger's  waves  are  rolling  bright, 

O'er  Afric's  burning  sand  ; 
And  where  the  reedy  Nile  o'erflows, 

These  blooming  flowers  expand. 


THE      ETHIOPIAN      LILY.  99 

A  single  leaf  of  purest  white, 

Is  first  disclos'd  to  view  ; 
Then  rising  from  its  fragrant  cell, 

A  heart  of  golden  hue. 

How  gay  beneath  our  northern  sun, 

Is  rear'd  its  graceful  head, 
Nor  seems  to  ask  the  fervid  rays 

In  Ethiopia  shed. 

If  haply  near  Tentyra's  walls 

Some  traveller  chance  to  stray, 
Thy  dark-green  leaves,  and  milk-white  crown, 

Might  cheer  his  lonely  way. 

Thus  has  the  Great  Creator's  care 

Bestow'd  on  every  land, 
Some  special  boon,  some  mark  of  love, 

That  speaks  a  Father's  hand. 

His  bounty  fills  the  earth  with  food, 

And  gives  the  sun  to  shine  ; 
Then  mourner,  dry  those  bitter  tears  ; 

He  cares  for  thee  and  thine. 

1834. 


EUGENIUS.* 

As  burns  some  flickering  taper  in  its  socket, 

Now  just  extinct,  and  now  a  transient  glare, 

Eugenius  lay :  the  hand  of  death  was  on  him, 

Though  reason's  light  undimm'd  was  shining  clear. 

There  o'er  his  pillow  hung  pale  memory, 

With  conscience  by  her  side,  as  judge  and  jury ; 

Leagu'd  to  accuse,  and  to  condemn. 

While  ever  and  anon  his  lips  disclose 

Thoughts  big  with  deep  regret ;  life  sinks  apace ; 

And  soon  the  impenetrable  veil  is  cast  o'er  all :  — 

Would  in  that  hour,  that  mercy's  door  was  yet 

Unbarr'd  to  him. 

In  truth  he  was  a  servant,  to  whom  his  Lord 

Had  given  the  whole  ten  talents,  —  ease, 

Affluence,  friends,  with  intellectual  powers, 

That  grasp'd  at  all ;  all,  but  infinity. 

His  early  youth  had  rang'd  the  fields  of  science, 

Had  cull'd  the  flowers  of  rhetoric  ;  and  fame 

Had  placed  upon  his  brow  the  unfading  laurel. 

*  The  death-bed  of  an  orator. 


E  UG  E  N  I  U  S.  101 

How  had  the  listening  crowd  in  rapture  hung, 
To  catch  the  music  of  that  voice,  that  stirring 
Eloquence  that  reached  the  soul,  and  seem'd 
Now  the  strong  tempest  on  the  ocean's  breast ; 
Now  the  low  breathings  of  a  distant  lute. 
He  knew  with  ease  to  climb  untrodden  heights, 
Nor  cower'd  his  wing,  where  others  fear'd  to  soar. 

His  eager  mind  (perchance)  had  sought  for  human 
Praise,  — too  eager  sought,  —  till  it  became  the  mind's 
Aliment,  the  all-absorbing  centre  of  his  good. 
Thus,  when  the  sultry  day  is  past,  beside  his  door 
Some  Carolinian  sits,  his  temples  bar'd, 
To  meet  the  evening  breeze,  the  fragrant- 
Breeze  of  his  own  sunny  clime,  whose 
Every  breath  is  prodigal  of  incense. 

How  did  that  mind  capacious,  still  admire 
This  universe  with  all  its  harmony ! 
The  veiney  leaf  that  trembles  on  the  bough, 
The  dew-drops  sparkling  in  the  solar  ray ; 
The  stars  that  burn  in  yon  blue  caaopy, 
Proclaimed  to  him,  with  voice  as  audible 
Their  Maker's  praise,  as  those  who  stand 
Before  His  throne,  hymning  their  hallelujahs. 

1834. 

9* 


SPRING. 

ONCE  more  I  hail  thee,  beauteous  spring  ! 
Once  more  thy  welcome  voice  I  hear, 
As  swift,  receding  o'er  the  plain, 
The  storms  of  winter  disappear. 

I  know  thee  by  thy  balmy  breath  ; 
I  know  thee  by  these  gentle  showers  ; 
I  know  thee  by  the  tuneful  notes 
That  break  from  yonder  leafy  bowers. 

I  know  thee  by  the  wreaths  of  bloom, 
Profusely  hung  on  every  tree  ; 
I  know  thee  by  thy  mantle  green, 
With  all  its  rich  embroidery. 

I  know  thee  by  the  streams  unbound, 
That  gayly  rush  from  steep  to  steep, 
As  onward  still  they  urge  their  course 
To  mingle  with  the  mighty  deep. 


STANZAS.  103 


So  time  pursues  his  rapid  flight ; 
Nor  stops  to  rest  where'er  we  be  ; 
But  hastens  on  and  on  to  join 
The  ocean  of  eternity. 

Rhinebeck,  May,  1834.   -   . 


STANZAS. 

The  fool  hath  said  in  his  heart,  there  is  no  God.  — 
Psalm  xiv.,  verse  1. 

AND  dwells  such  thought  within  thy  breast? 

Infatuated  one  ! 
Then  whence  art  thou,  and  whence  is  all 

We  see  below  the  sun  ? 

Who  spake  this  universe  from  naught,  — 

Appointed  day  and  night,  — 
Or  spread  yon  glorious  canopy, 

With  all  those  orbs  of  light  ? 

But  chiefest  man  —  of  all  his  works 

The  noblest  and  the  best ; 
His  image  —  His  th'  undying  flame, 

Enkindled  in  the  breast. 


104  STANZAS. 

The  changing  seasons,  by  His  word, 
In  beauteous  order  roll,  — 

And,  though  unseen,  that  guiding  hand 
Conducts  the  wond'rous  whole. 

And  those  who  doubt,  may  surely  trace 
The  great  Creator's  power,  — 

Attested  by  the  unfolding  leaf, 
By  every  opening  flower. 

It  flashes  in  the  lightning's  gleam,  — 
It  shakes  the  sounding  woods,  — 

And  lifts  an  awful  voice  on  high, 
Above  the  water-floods. 

Or  scan,  by  faith's  discerning  eye, 
The  records  of  his  grace  :  — 

'Tis  God  with  man,  as  friend  with  friend, 
Conversing  face  to  face. 


THE   CHAPLET. 

TO   MISS    M.  M.   T.*  OF  B N. 

THE  garden  is  near,  and  I'll  hasten  to  bring 

A  chaplet  from  thence  of  the  flowers  of  the  spring,  - 

The  sweetest  and  fairest  that  ever  may  be, 

To  bind  on  thy  brow,  as  an  emblem  of  thee. 

A  moss-rose,  half-open'd,  all  moist  with  the  dew, 
And  lilies  just  hid  in  their  leaves  from  the  view,  — 
With  heart's-ease  in  gold  and  in  purple  array'd, 
Yet  modestly  seeming  to  covet  the  shade. 

How  sweet  to  the  sense,  and  how  fair  to  the  sight ! 
They  bud  and  they  bloom  but  to  yield  us  delight ; 
Each  breathing  an  odour  as  purely  its  own, 
As  if  in  the  wide  world  it  flourished  alone. 

But  short-lived  their  glory,  —  an  hour  or  a  day, 
And  fragrance  and  beauty  will  vanish  away  ; 

*  A  young  lady  of  tender  age. 


106  THE    CHAPLET. 

Yet  lessons  of  wisdom  are  taught  us  by  flowers, 
Distill'd  as  the  dew,  —  falling  soft  as  the  showers. 

They  tell  us  that  youth,  like  the  season  of  spring, 
Will  soon  disappear,  —  and  of  time  on  the  wing 
Exciting  to  diligence,  prompting  to  move. 
Seize  !  —  seize  on  the  hours,  and  the  moments  improve. 

How  bless'd  is  thy  lot,  — if  a  blessing  it  be,  — 
That  fortune  has  lavish'd  her  bounties  on  thee  1 
And  friends,  —  what  a  number  !  all  ardent,  sincere,  — 
With  hand  join'd  in  hand  for  thy  happiness  here. 

Were  wishes  availing  my  suit  to  obtain, 

The  virtues  and  graces  should  walk  in  thy  train  ; 

Thy  head  stored  with  knowledge,  thy  heart  be  the  seat 

Where  all  that  was  loving  and  lovely  should  meet ;  — 

But  chief  that  thy  hopes  should  be  treasur'd  on  high, 
Since  all  which  is  earth-born  must  wither  and  die  ; 
And  richly  to  thee  may  His  favour  be  given, 
Who  open'd  a  way  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 
1836. 


THE   GEM.* 

To  aid  the  youthful  voyager, 

The  troubled  waves  of  lite  to  stem, 

His  great  Creator  kindly  gave 

The  star  of  hope,  —  a  radiant  gem. 

And  when  his  fondest  schemes  are  wreck'd, 

By  stern  misfortune  rudely  driven, 

Still  shines  that  star,  with  trembling  rays, 

To  light  the  wand'rer  on  to  Heaven. 

,. 

The  toil-worn  Pilgrim's  heart  to  cheer, 
And  raise  from  earth  his  sorrowing  eyes, 
The  Blessed  One  a  boon  has  given, — 
A  pledge  of  rest  beyond  the  skies  : 
(And  poor  to  this  the  Indian  mines,  — 
But  dross  the  monarch's  diadem  ; 
A  look,  a  glance  outweighs  the  whole, — ) 
The  word  of  life  —  that  precious  gem  ! 

When  perfect  from  its  Maker's  hand 
The  first  of  human  fabrics  lay, 

*  Written  for  a  small  newspaper  of  that  name. 


108  TO    WINNIFRED. 

Devoid  of  motion,  sense,  or  sound, 
To  animate  the  beauteous  clay,  — 
Methinks  a  moment's  pause  ensued, 
Replete  with  purpos'd  good  to  them, 
Ere  yet  infus'd  the  living  soul,  — 
The  spark  divine,  —  transcendent  gem. 

]836. 


TO  WINNIFRED. 

MAY  every  good  thy  steps  attend, 
My  child,  my  sister,  and  my  friend  ;  — 
Here  on  the  earth  may'st  thou  be  bless'd, 
And  lastly  find  eternal  rest. 

Would  my  experience  nought  avail, 
But  just  to  tell  that  hope  may  fail, 
I  would  not  cloud  thy  youthful  mind, 
But  choose  to  leave  thee  deaf  and  blind. 

If  aught  should  tempt  thy  feet  to  stray,  — 
To  wander  from  the  narrow  way,  — 
His  voice  behind  thee  may'st  thou  hear,  — 
The  voice  that  warns  of  danger  near. 


TO     HARRIET.  109 

Then  speed  thee  on  thy  Christian  race, 
And  God  shall  grant  thee  grace  for  grace, 
Until  thy  stature  perfect  be, 
Through  Him,  —  the  glorious  one  in  three. 


TO   HARRIET. 

I  LOVE  to  wander  through  the  glade, 
To  pluck  the  wild-rose  blooming  there, 
Or  in  the  depth  of  forest  shade, 
To  mark  the  violet  opening  fair. 

I  love  the  sweet  geranium's  smell, 
Its  scollop'd  leaves  and  crimson  flower ; 
Of  days  long  past  it  seems  to  tell, 
And  memory  owns  its  magic  power. 

But  lovelier,  sweeter  far  the  maid 
Whose  breast  with  feeling  glows,  and  truth, 
Whose  hopes  on  heaven  are  early  stay'd, 
To  guide  and  guard  her  wayward  youth. 

1831. 


10 

> 


TO   CONSTANCE. 

THERE'S  blight  on  earthly  joys,  my  love  ; 

There's  blight  on  earthly  joys ; 
Alas  for  him  whose  heart  is  wed 

To  her  fantastic  toys  ! 

The  fairest  flowers  will  soonest  fade, — 

Will  soonest  fade  and  die  ; 
But  'tis  not  thus  in  yonder  world,- — 

That  world  above  the  sky. 

The  sun  is  shining  clear,  my  love,  — 

The  sun  is  shining  clear ; 
No  cloud  is  seen  to  cross  his  path, 

Or  dim  his  bright  career. 

Yet  long  before  his  morning  beams 
Have  reach'd  their  mid-day  power, 

The  mists  may  gather  on  the  hill ; 
The  storm  portentous  low'r. 


TO    CONSTANCE.  Ill 

See  nature's  face  !  how  fair,  my  love,  — 

See  nature's  face,  —  how  fair  ! 
The  feather' d  tribes  are  on  the  wing, 

And  music  fills  the  air. 

The  trees  are  clad  in  liveliest  green ; 

The  breezes  gently  blow  ; 
But  soon,  too  soon,  the  wintry  blast 

Will  lay  their  honours  low. 

The  tuneful  warbler  quits  the  spray 

Where  late  she  lov'd  to  sing, 
And  hies  afar,  in  distant  climes, 

To  seek  perennial  spring. 

There's  change  on  all  below,  my  love,  — 

There's  change  on  all  below ; 
Time  speeds  us  on  toward  the  tomb,  — 

Speeds  on  through  weal  and  wo. 

183K 


THE    PILGRIMS. 

TO  A  LAI>Y. 

WE  met  as  pilgrims  meet, 
Who  are  bound  to  a  distant  shrine, 
Who  spend  the  hours  in  converse  sweet 
From  noon  to  the  day's  decline  ; 
Soul  mingling  with  soul,  as  they  tell  of  their  fears, 
And  their  hopes,  as  they  pass  through  the  valley  of 
tears. 

And  still  they  commune  with  delight, 

Of  pleasures  or  toils  by  the  way, 

The  winds  of  the  desert  that  chill  them  by  night, 

Or  heat  that  oppresses  by  day : 

For  one  to  the  faithful  is  ever  at  hand, 

As  the  shade  of  a  rock  in  a  weary  land. 

We  met  as  soldiers  meet, 
Ere  yet  the  fight  is  won  ; 
Ere  joyful  at  their  captain's  feet 
Is  laid  their  armour  down : 


THE      PILGRIMS.  113 

Each  strengthens  his  fellow  to  do  and  to  bear, 
In  hope  of  the  crown  which  the  victors  wear. 

Though  daily  the  strife  they  renew, 

And  their  foe  has  his  thousands  o'ercome, 

Yet  the  promise  unfailing  is  ever  in  view 

Of  safety,  protection,  and  home  ; 

Where  they  knew  that  their  sovereign  such  favour 

conferred, 
"  As  eye  hath  not  seen,  as  the  ear  hath  not  heard." 

We  met  as  seamen  meet, 

On  ocean's  watery  plain, 

Where  billows  rise  and  tempests  beat, 

Ere  the  destin'd  port  they  gain : 

But  tempests  they  baffle,  and  billows  they  brave, 

Assur'd  that  their  pilot  is  mighty  to  save. 

They  xiwell  on  the  scenes  which  have  past, 
Of  perils  they  still  may  endure  ; 
The  haven  of  rest,  where  they  anchor  at  last, 
Where  bliss  is  complete  and  secure  ;  — 
Till  its  towers  and  spires  arise  from  afar, 
(To  the  eye  of  faith)  as  some  radiant  star. 

We  met  as  brethren  meet, 
Who  are  cast  on  a  foreign  strand, 
10* 


114  WHAT     IS     POETRY? 

Whose  hearts  are  cheer'd  as  they  hasten  to  greet, 
And  commune  of  their  native  land, — 
Of  their  father's  house  in  that  world  above, 
Of  His  tender  care,  and  His  boundless  love. 

The  city  so  fair  to  behold, 

The  redeem'd  in  their  vestments  of  white  : 

In  those  mansions  of  rest,  where  pleasures  untold, 

They  finally  hope  to  unite  ; 

Where  ceaseless  ascriptions  of  praise  shall  ascend 

To  God  and  the  Lamb  in  a  world  without  end. 

1835. 


WHAT  IS   POETRY? 

A  LAMBENT  flame  within  the  breast ; 
A  thought  harmoniously  express'd  ; 
A  distant  meteor's  glimmering  ray  ; 
A  light  that  often  leads  astray  ; 
A  harp,  whose  ever-varying  tone 
Might  waken  to  the  breeze's  moan  ; 
A  lake,  in  whose  transparent  face 
Fair  nature's  lovely  form  we  trace  ; 


HYMN.  115 

A  blooming  flower,  in  gardens  rare, 
Yet  found  in  deserts  bleak  and  bare  : 
A  charm  o'er  every  object  thrown  ; 
A  bright  creation  of  its  own  ; 
A  burst  of  feeling,  warm  and  wild, 
From  nature's  own  impassion'd  child. 


HYMN. 

*  * 
FROM    THE    PSALMS. 

BLESS  ye  the  Lord  !  —  ye  people,  bless 
His  name,  who  rules  in  righteousness, 
From  lands  which  hail  the  day's  return, 
To  where  its  setting  glories  burn  :  — - 

Who  showers  His  mercy  o'er  the  plain, 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain ; 
The  flocks  and  herds  by  Him  are  fed  ; 
His  hand  supplies  our  daily  bread. 

How  vain  our  toil,  our  watchings  are  ! 
His  own  belov'd  are  still  His  care  ; 
And  food  and  rest  to  these  are  given, 
With  brightening  views  of  Christ  and  heaven. 


MEMORIAL 

TO    AN    AFFECTIONATE    AUNT, 
On  the  death  of  a  beautiful  little  girl,  eight  years  old. 

CUT  down  in  early  freshness, 
As  grass  before  the  mower's  toil, 

When  all  its  grace  and  beauty 
Lies  prostrate  on  its  native  soil. 

Our  hearts  were  twining  round  thee, 
Belov'd  and  precious  one,  — 

With  hopes  for  many  a  future  year, 
Of  joy  beneath  the  sun. 

Thy  life  pass'd  on  in  gladness, 
Like  some  unruffled  stream 

That  wanders  through  the  flow'ry  mead, 
Or  some  enchanting  dream. 

Words  ne'er  may  tell  our  anguish,  — 
(Heart-stricken  and  dismay'd,  — ) 


THE    EXILE. 

When  first  in  earth's  cold  bosom 
Thy  lovely  form  was  laid. 

But  time  has  brought  its  healing, 
And  now,  at  evening  hour, 

Or  in  our  lonely  musings, 
We  feel  its  soothing  power. 

And  could  that  well-known  voice  again 

But  reach  our  mortal  ear, 
Its  gentle  pleadings  would  be  heard  : 

'  Prepare  to  meet  me  here.' 

Rhincbeck,  1834. 


THE   EXILE. 

Supposed  to  be  addressed  by  a  Polish  lady  to  the  picture 
of  her  son. 

YES,  thou  art  here,  —  thy  shade  I  see  ; 
?Tis  all  that  now  remains  of  thee, 

Thou  self-devoted  one  ! 
Yet  shall  the  living  image  rest, 
Enshrin'd  within  thy  mother's  breast, 
life's  last  sands  are  run, 


1  18  THE     EXILE. 

Now  banish' d  far  from  friends  and  home, 
A  stranger  through  the  world  to  roam, 

Neglected  and  forgot :  — 
Perhaps  in  toil  from  day  to  day, 
To  wear  thy  golden  years  away, 

And  mourn  thy  wretched  lot.  — 

Or  haply  thou  dost  wander  wide, 
Where  Mississippi's  waters  glide, 

Through  boundless  solitude  ; 
Or  where  the  Hudson,  from  its  source, 
Due  southward  bends  its  mighty  course 

To  meet  th'  Atlantic  flood  ;  — 

Or  where  the  dark  Tungooska  flows, 
An  exile  o'er  Siberian  snows, 

Dost  sit  thee  down  and  sigh  — 
Or  where  the  Altaian  mountains  cast 
Their  shadows  o'er  the  dreary  waste, 

Dost  close  thy  languid  eye. 

Where'er  thou  art,  whate'er  thy  fate, 
May  I  but  meet  thee,  soon  or  late, 

When  all  these  woes  are  past ;  — 
For  this  my  constant  prayers  ascend, 
That  God  himself  would  be  thy  friend  — 

Would  grant  thee  peace  at  last. 


ODE.  119 

And  for  our  injur'd  country's  wrongs, — 
The  theme  of  earth's  ten  thousand  tongues,  — 

I  evermore  shall  pray, 
That  yet  a  beam  of  heavenly  light 
May  pierce  the  darkness  of  her  night, 

And  usher  in  the  day. 

1835. 


ODE, 

WRITTEN   FOR   THE   FOURTH   OF  JULY,  1834. 

STAR  of  the  west,  whose  radiant  beams 
Have  thrown  their  light  o'er  many  a  land  ! 
What  cloud  obscures  thy  brightness  now "? 
Why  all  dismay'd  thy  votaries  stand  ? 

Thy  praise  was  borne  on  every  gale,  — 
In  every  clime  was  heard  thy  fame  ; 
By  all  the  good,  and  all  the  wise, 
How  lov'd,  and  how  rever'd  thy  name  ! 

Now  murm'rings  from  the  north  are  heard, 
As  of  a  tempest  brooding  there  ; 


120  THE   BRIDE'S  WELCOME. 

While  many  a  flash  from  southern  skies 
The  swift  approaching  storm  declare. 

None,  none  but  He,  « the  strong  to  save,' 
Can  shield  us  from  impending  ill ; 
That  all-commanding  voice,  that  bade 
The  jarring  elements  '  be  still.' 


THE    BRIDE'S   WELCOME.* 

TO    MRS.   J.   C.    T N,    ON    HER    MARRIAGE. 

SHALL  aught  on  this  morning  of  gladness  be  wanting, 
Of  warm  gratulation,  to  welcome  the  bride  — 
To  the  hills  and  the  vales  which  she  lov'd  in  her  child- 
hood, 
Where  the  waves  of  the  Hudson  deep  roll  in  their  pride? 

She  comes  like  the  sunshine,  the  shadows  dispersing 
That  gather'd  around  in  the  season  of  gloom  ; 
The  plants  that  fresh  springing,  await  but  her  culture, 
To  cause  them  in  beauty  and  fragrance  to  bloom. 

*  The  bridal  party,  shortly  after  their  marriage,  left  the  city  of 

N.  Y.,  where  it  took  place,  and  came  up  the  river  to  Mr.  L 's 

seat,  where  these  lines  were  found  on  the  lady's  dressing  table. 


MUSIC.  121 

What  heart-felt  emotions  are  upward  ascending, 
Beseeching  the  Father  of  mercies  to  guide, 
To  bless  and  protect,  and  to  smile  on  the  union, 
And  crown  with  his  favour  the  bridegroom  and  bride. 


MUSIC* 

I'VE  heard  the  solemn  organ's  peal 
Through  vaulted  roofs  resound, 

As  many  a  tuneful  voice  arose 
To  mingle  with  its  sound. 

Pve  seen  the  floating  bark  at  eve, 
With  streamers  gay  appear, 

Where  every  instrument  combined 
To  charm  the  list'ning  ear. 

And  nearer  as  that  bark  approached, 
More  loud  the  concert's  swell ; 

Then  faint  and  fainter  on  the  breeze 
The  dying  cadence  felL 

I've  heard  the  moan  of  autumn  winds, 
While  fancy,  near  at  hand, 
11 


122  REQUIEM. 

Has  whisper'd  soft  that  harps  were  swept 
By  some  aerial  band. 

But  these  are  poor,  discordant  sounds, 

To  those  the  saint  shall  hear 
O'er  death's  cold  stream,  when  that  full  band 

Shall  burst  upon  his  ear. 

If  yet  among  that  countless  throng 

My  soul  shall  find  a  place, 
Be  this  its  theme,  while  ages  roll : 

A  sinner  sav'd  by  grace ! 

1834. 


REQUIEM.* 

SHE  is  gone  to  her  rest  — 
In  the  green  earth's  breast 
Is  peacefully,  quietly  laid  — 
Where  the  turmoil  of  life, 
The  vexation  and  strife 
Can  never,  no  never,  invade. 

*  On  a  most  interesting  young  lady  who  died  in  the  nineteenth 
year  of  her  age,  October  17th,  1828. 


REQUIEM.  123 

That  soul-beaming  smile, 

Or  the  heart  without  guile, 

Can  memory  ever  forget  ? 

Like  the  rose  lately  blown, 

Though  its  beauty  is  gone, 

The  fragrance  is  lingering  yet.      ^  * 

k>;$U 

Away  from  earth's  bowers, 

Its  streams  and  its  flowers, 
She  walked  through  the  valley  of  gloom — 

Yet  fearless  of  harm, 

She  reposed  on  the  arm 
That  triumph'd  o'er  death  and  the  tomb. 

With  heart-rending  sighs, 

And  tear-streaming  eyes, 

Affection  had  warded  the  blow ;  — 

But  all  was  in  vain, 

Hope  dawn'd  not  again, 

Till  she  the  beloved  one  was  low. 

Away  from  earth's  bowers, 
Its  streams  and  its  flowers, 
Secure  in  the  mansions  above, 
She  joins  in  the  song 
With  the  numberless  throng, 
Whose  theme  is  Emanuel's  love. 


ELIJAH. 


And  the  word  of  the  Lord  came  unto  him  saying,  get  thee 
hence,  and  turn  thee  eastward,  and  hide  thyself  by  the  brook 
Cherith  that  is  before  Jordan.  And  it  shall  be,  lhat  thou  shalt 
drink  of  the  brook  ;  and  I  have  commanded  the  ravens  to  feed 
thee  there  :  17th  chap.  1st  Kings,  2nd,  3rd,  4th  verses. 


THE  prophet  heard  that  sacred  voice, 
Whose  whispers  reach'd  his  inmost  soul ; 

He  heard  with  holy  ardour  fill'd, 

And  bow'd  him  to  his  Lord's  control. 

"  Elijah,"  said  the  Holy  One, 

44  Go,  get  thee  from  the  haunts  of  men  ; 
4*  And  hide  thee  midst  the  tangled  wilds 

41  That  cover  Cherith's  lonely  glen. 

44  There  shalt  thou  drink  the  running  brook, 
44  (Ere  reach'd  the  Jordan's  silver  tide,) 

4*  And  lo,  I  send  the  fowls  of  heaven 
44  To  see  thy  wants  are  all  supplied." 


TO      HOPE.  125 

And  there  he  dwelt  beside  the  stream 
To  wait  his  Master's  high  command ; 

Nor  fail'd  his  meals  at  morn  or  eve, 
Though  famine  wasted  all  the  land. 


TO   HOPE. 

".  •  •-  ' 

WHAT  have  I  to  do  with  thee] 
Get  thee  hence,  thou  recreant  —  flee ; 
Know'st  thou  not  thy  reign  is  o'er  1 
Sure  thy  charms  shall  charm  no  more. 
Haste  thee  where  the  downy  cheek, 
Still  is  eloquent  to  speak ; 
Where  the  youthful  glance  appears 
Sparkling  bright,  undimm'd  by  tears, 
Where  the  green-sward  lifts  its  head 
From  the  lightly-bounding  tread. 

There  to  raptur'd  ears  unfold 
Tales,  the  sweetest  ever  told  : 
Tell  of  pleasures,  —  joys  to  come,  — 
Fabricks  wove  in  fancy's  loom. 
Not  the  meteor's  fitful  gleam  ; 
Not  the  bubble  on  the  stream 
11* 


126  NEW-YEAR'S    DAY. 

Not  the  rose's  fragrant  sigh  ; 
Not  the  arrow  through  the  sky ; 
Not  the  light  of  winter's  day, 
Surer,  swifter,  fly  away. 


NEW-YEAR'S    EVE. 

THE  signal  is  past,  and  the  arrow  has  flown, 
The  days  are  all  number'd,  the  moments  are  gone ; 
And  soon  in  the  east  will  the  morning  appear, 
As  thousands  rejoice  in  the  birth  of  the  year. 

At  midnight,  at  midnight  the  circle  was  run, 

And  time  hurry'd  by  as  he  ever  has  done  ; 

Yet  vainly  we  listen'd,  so  lightly  he  sped, 

For  the  rush  of  his  wings,  or  the  sound  of  his  tread. 

The  sages  and  poets  united  declare, 
That  saving  his  forelock,  his  temples  are  bare  ; 
With  a  sithe  on  his  arm,  and  a  glass  in  his  hand, 
He  stays  not,  he  stops  not,  by  sea  or  by  land. 


NEW-YEAR'S  DAY.  127 

There's  a  wail,  there's  a  cry  through  the  merchant's  Isle,* 
With  the  red,  red  glare  of  a  smouldering  pile  ; 
Destruction  triumphant  still  waving  her  wand, 
With  wreck  and  with  ruin  on  every  hand. 

How  many  a  hope  at  the  set  of  the  sun, 
All  cloudless  and  bright  as  the  race  he  had  run, 
Came  not  with  his  rising,  but  melted  in  air, 
Or  sunk  overwhelm'd  in  the  depths  of  despair. 

The  household  late  joyous,  is  cover'd  with  gloom  ; 
Its  staff  and  its  stay  have  gone  down  to  the  tomb  ; 
The  form  of  the  lov'd  one  has  vanish'd  from  earth, 
Now  silent  the  banquet,  now  Jonely  the  hearth. 

The  voice  of  the  minstrel,  the  tones  of  his  lay, 
Are  mournful  and  sad  on  this  festival  day, 
When  songs  of  thanksgiving  to  Him  should  ascend, 
Whose  gifts  are  receiv'd  without  measure  or  end. 

The  drops  of  the  morning,  the  sands  on  the  shore 
Might  fail  us  in  numbers  to  reckon  them  o'er; 
Exhaustless,  unbounded,  his  goodness  we  prove 
A  fountain  of  light,  and  an  ocean  of  love. 

*  The  great  conflagration  of  the  16th  of  December,  1835. 


•* 


THE   YOUNG    SOLDIER. 

"  YOUNG  soldier,  whither  goestthou? 
I  go  to  fight  for  justice,  for  the  holy  cause  of  the  people, 
For  the  sacred  rights  of  the  human  race. 

A  blessing  be  upon  thine  arms,  young  soldier ! " 
Words  of  a  believer. 

WHITHER  goest  thou,  youthful  soldier, 

With  that  bearing  proud  and  high  1 
Does  the  hope  of  future  conquest 

Flush  thy  cheek  and  fire  thine  eye  1 

Yes,  I  go,  my  country  calls  me,     ' 

In  His  strength,  who  rules  above ; 
Go  to  shield  her  sacred  altars, 

Go  to  save  the  land  I  love. 

Where  the  storm  is  wildly  beating, 

In  her  cause  my  breast  I'll  bare.  — 
Blessings  on  thee,  youthful  soldier, 

Be  thou  heaven's  peculiar  care. 


THE    YOUNG    SOLDIER. 

Whither  goest  thou,  youthful  soldier, 

With  that  broad-sword  gleaming  bright?  — 

In  the  holy  cause  of  justice, 
1  have  arm'd  me  for  the  fight. 

Where  beneath  a  yoke  of  bondage, 
Men  are  spent  with  toil  and  grief; 

Every  ray  of  hope  extinguish'd  — 
There  I  haste  to  bring  relief. 

Where  the  prisoner  groans  in  anguish, 
By  the  tyrant's  chain  eppress'd. 

Heaven  befriend  thee,  youthful  soldier,  — 
Nerve  thine  arm,  and  shield  thy  breast. 

Youthful  soldier,  whither  go'st  thou, 
With  that  dauntless  brow  of  thine  ] 

Say,  should  fortune  frown  upon  thee, 
Would  not  then  thy  soul  repine  ? 

I  have  counted  well  the  dangers 
Lurking  round  the  soldier's  way  ; 

Death,  or  bonds,  or  lonely  exile, 
Still  must  form  the  sad  array. 

I  have  left  my  home  and  kindred,  — 
All  that  promis'd  earthly  bliss  ; 


130  THE     YOUNG    SOLDIER. 

Bursting  every  tie  asunder  ; 

What  is  death  compar'd  to  this  1 

Not  an  object  here  shall  charm  me, 
Till  I  hail  my  country  free.  — 

Heaven  protect  thee,  youthful  soldier,  — 
Crown  thine  arms  with  victory. 

Whither  goest  thou,  youthful  soldier, 
On  that  fleet  and  warlike  steed  ?  — 

Where  the  trumpet  calls  to  battle, 
Thitherward  my  course  I  speed. 

Where  o'er  many  a  fertile  region, 
Despots  hold  their  iron  sway, 

On  the  meed  of  honest  labour, 
Seizing  as  their  lawful  prey  : 

Where  for  bread  the  voice  of  childhood 
Long  has  pain'd  the  mother's  ear, 

While  disease  and  wasting  famine 
Rest  on  all  her  heart  holds  dear : 

Where  the  poor,  despoil'd  forever, 
Claim  the  rights  their  Maker  gave  ; 

See  the  arm  of  vengeance  lifted, 

Hear  the  watchword,  —  on  ye  brave. 


HOME.  131 


Soldier,  speed  thy  glorious  mission  ; 

Pause  thou  riot,  till  wars  shall  cease ; 
Haste  from  conquering  on  to  conquest, 

Till  restored  the  reign  of  peace. 


HOME. 

WHY  does  the  mind  wher'er  we  roam, 
Cling  to  the  spot,  our  earliest  home? 
The  hearth,  the  board,  the  social  glee, 
Are  fondly  kept  in  memory. 

The  little  group,  so  thoughtless,  gay  ; 
The  pastimes  at  the  close  of  day, 
By  grief  untouch'd,  unknown  to  sorrow, 
No  sad  forebodings  of  to-morrow. 

The  mild  rebuke  in  kindness  given ; 
The  lips  that  taught  the  way  to  heaven ; 
The  watchful  eye,  the  anxious  care, 
The  love  unfeign'd,  —  all,  all  were  there. 


132  SUMMER* 

But  shift  the  scene  —  a  rush  of  years 
Has  borne  us  on  through  hopes  and  fears ; 
And  yet  again,  nay,  do  not  start, 
The  hand  of  death,  the  bleeding  heart. 

And  when  the  latest  pang  is  o'er, 
When  hearts  that  felt,  can  feel  no  more, 
How  blest,  supremely  blest,  who  prove 
That  portion  fair,  the  home  above. 


SUMMER. 

WRITTEN    FOR   THE    BAZAAR.* 

SEE  o'er  the  hills  advancing 

Like  youth  in  morning  prime, 
In  verdant  robes  adorn'd  with  flowers, 

We  hail  the  summer  time. 
Her  voice  is  as  the  voice  of  song, — 

A  Hymn  at  opening  day ; 
The  echo  of  a  thousand  lyres, 

As  evening  fades  away. 

*  A  newspaper  prepared  in  the  family  for  the  amusement  of  the 
children. 


SUMMER*  133 

. 

The  tall  acacias  waving 

Their  feathery  plumes  on  high  ; 
The  maple  and  the  mountain-ash, 

How  lovely  to  the  eye. 
The  cedar  in  her  fadeless  green, 

The  elm's  luxuriant  shade, 
With  all  the  wilderness  of  bloom, 

So  richly  now  display'd. 

While  roses  blush  in  beauty, 

And  lilies  fair  unfold 
Their  glossy  leaves  of  various  hue, 

White,  orange,  blue,  and  gold  ; 
The  piony  with  its  drooping  head, 

Has  blown  a  transient  hour ; 
Now  gently  shaken  in  the  breeze, 

Descends  a  crimson  shower. 

The  fragrant  pink  of  every  shade 

From  deepest  red  to  pale, 
And  sweet-brier  with  its  thorny  stem, 

That  scents  the  passing  gale ; 
The  luscious  strawberry  crowns  the  board, 

And  ripening  cherries  say, 
The  gatherer's  hand  may  well  be  fill'd 

Upon  some  future  day. 
12 


THE  AFRICAN   DOVES.* 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  BAZAAR. 

WIDOW'D  and  lonely  the  dove  is  repining, 

The  lost  one,  her  mate,  was  so  tender  and  true  ; 

And  still  she  laments  as  the  day  is  declining, 
In  accents  of  sorrow,  coo  coo  and  coo  coo. 

Their  own  native  woods  had  the  pine-apple  growing, 

The  lime  and  the  orange,  so  lovely  to  view, 
And  sweet  through  the  groves  as  the  sea-breeze  was 
blowing, 

They  warbled  the  measure,  coo  coo  and  coo  coo. 

» 

Weary  and  faint  in  the  palm-shade  reposing, 

The  white-man  who  came  o'er  the  billows  of  blue  ; 

How  grateful  that  song,  as  when  day-light  was  closing, 
It  broke  on  his  sadness  in  coo  and  coo  coo. 

The  sails  were  all  set,  and  the  streamers  were  flying, 
The  seamen  and  landsmen  had  bidden  adieu  ; 

When  soft  from  their  cage,  as  when  south  winds  are  dying, 
They  murmur'd  farewell  with  a  coo  and  coo  coo. 

*  These  birds  were  brought  out  by  the  Rev.  J.  Seys :   shortly 
after  one  sickened  and  died. 


A  POET'S  DREAM. 

WRITTEN    FOR   THE    BAZAAR. 

FULL  on  his  sight  the  vision  rose, 
Of  mountains  wrapp'd  in  winter  snows, 
While  fields  and  woods,  far,  far  away, 
Beneath  the  spotless  covering  lay. 

The  river  seem'd  one  desert  plain, 
Where  silence  held  her  quiet  reign, 
Save  where  the  tinkling  sledges  bore 
Their  merchandise  from  shore  to  shore. 

The  wintry  storm  had  sunk  to  rest, 
Or  moan'd  along  the  ocean's  breast, 
While  southern  breezes  seem'd  to  bring 
The  hope  of  summer  on  their  wing. 

Then  rumblings  strange,  portentous,  drear, 
With  many  a  crash,  assails  the  ear,  —  - 


136  A    POE  T'S    DREAM* 

The  sparry  timbers,  bending,  broke, 
As  with  a  start  the  dreamer  woke. 

He  woke,  and  lo !  the  morning  ray 
Had  chas'd  the  gloom  of  night  away  ; 
Earth,  smiling,  own'd  that  genial  glow 
Which  spring,  and  only  spring,  can  know. 

Again  the  green  sward  deck'd  the  mead, 
Thick,  thick  with  golden  daisies  spread, 
And  orchards,  in  their  annual  bloom, 
Were  breathing  soft  a  mild  perfume. 

The  ploughman,  whistling  on  his  way, 
With  cheerful  heart  began  the  day,  — 
And  every  warbler  prun'd  his  wing 
To  greet  with  song  the  early  spring. 


. 


'  , 


THE   BOY'S   LAMENT. 

WRITTEN    FOR    THE    BAZAAR. 

OH  what  shall  I  do,  when  the  snow  melts  away, 
For  a  ride  down  the  hill  in  my  dear  little  sleigh  1 
I'm  sure  neither  summer,  nor  autumn,  nor  spring, 
With  all  their  enjoyments,  such  pleasure  can  bring. 

The  river,  now  ice-bound,  will  break  from  her  chain, 
And  the  smoke  of  the  steamer  be  curling  again  ; 
The  lambs  on  the  hill-side  will  frolic  and  play  ; 
But  sure  this  is  dull  to  a  ride  in  my  sleigh. 

And  when  the  katalpa  is  cover'd  with  bloom, 
And  soft-blowing  zephyrs  are  stealing  perfume, 
And  bees  at  their  labour  are  humming  away, 
I  know  I  shall  sigh  for  a  ride  in  my  sleigh. 

In  autumn,  when  skies  are  so  blue  and  serene, 
And  the  light  fleecy  cloud  on  the  mountains  is  seen, 
And  trees  are  so  lovely,  just  ting'd  by  decay, 
Oh  then  I  shall  hope  for  a  ride  in  my  sleigh. 

1836. 

12* 


THE   GIRL'S   LAMENT.* 

WRITTEN    FOR    THE    BAZAAR. 

THE  song  had  ceas'd,  and  yet  I  stood 
As  if  to  catch  those  sounds  again ; 
But  fate,  alas  !  had  so  decreed, 
That  'twas  his  last,  his  sweetest  strain. 

Now  perch'd  upon  the  casement  high, 
With  music  trembling  on  his  breath,  — 
Nor  thought  nor  fear  of  danger  nigh,  — 
And  now  inanimate  in  death. 

With  sorrowing  heart  and  tearful  eyes, 
We  laid  him  low,  beneath  the  clod, 
Yet  sooth' d  by  hope,  that  beauteous  spring 
Would  deck  with  flowers  the  verdant  sod. 

There's  many  a  bird  whose  plumage  bright, 

And  airy  fleetness,  may  combine 

To  rival  thee,  —  but  never  one 

Can  touch  my  heart  with  notes  like  thine. 

*  On  the  death  of  a  favourite  Canary-bird. 


SHEEP-SORREL. 

WRITTEN    FOR    THE  BAZAAR. 

THERE  is  a  flower  unknown  to  fame, 
Whose  very  name  is  scarce  a  name, 
Which  never  yet  has  won  its  way 
To  lady's  bower  or  minstrel's  lay. 

No  product  this  of  sweat  and  toil,  — 
Growth  of  no  rich  luxuriant  soil ; 
The  common  hillocks,  brown  and  bare,  — 
You  need  but  look,  to  find  it  there. 

Five  petals  small,  of  palest  gold, 
The  early  smiles  of  spring  unfold  ; 
Nor  has  its  glory  pass'd  away 
On  chill  November's  latest  day. 

Light  pois'd  upon  its  stem  is  seen 
A  curious  leaf  of  tender  green  — 
Three  hearts  distinct,  yet  bound  together," 
Alike  in  storm  and  sunny  weather. 


140  OLD    GRAY. 

Oh  Nature  !  what  a  book  is  thine ! 
Through  every  page  we  read  divine, 
Calling  the  simplest  weed  to  prove 
How  brothers,  sisters,  friends  should  love. 


OLD  GRAY. 

TO    MASTER    R.   J.   G.,  A    VERY    LITTLE    BOY. 
WRITTEN    FOR    THE    BAZAAR, 

Now  come,  little  auditors,  listen,  I  pray  ; 
I've  got  a  fine  story  to  tell  you  to-day  : 
I'm  sure  it  will  please  both  the  aged  and  youth, 
As  many  and  many  can  vouch  for  its  truth. 

In  short,  to  begin,  there  was  once,  on  a  time, 
A  certain  gray  mouser,  just  turn'd  of  her  prime  ; 
Some  call'd  her  '  Old  Gray,'  though  by  all  'twas 

confess'd 
That  '  Lady  Benevolence '  suited  her  best. 

None  prompter  in  duty,  by  night  or  by  day, 
In  watching  or  list'ning  to  seek  for  the  prey,  — 


OLD    GRAY.  141 

Her  ear  bending  slyly,  now  this  way  or  that, 
As  all  may  observe,  who  would  notice  a  cat. 

A  friend  at  the  hen-coop  she  often  was  found, 
When  the  rat  or  the  weazle  was  prowling  around, 
Or  chick  became  motherless,  stray'd  from  the  wing, 
A  mother  was  she  to  the  motherless  thing. 

When  silly  young  kitlings  would  wrangle  and  claw, 
She  settled  them  soon  by  the  weight  of  her  paw ; 
Then  lectur'd  them  soundly  for  doing  amiss, 
In  terms  which  expressed,  «P11  have  no  more  of  this.' 

Of  temper  so  cheerful,  of  kindness  so  rare, 
That  few,  very  few,  with  herself  might  compare  j 
Yet  each  little  master  and  miss  will  agree 
That  puss  was  a  pattern  for  them  and  for  me. 


THE   HARVEST   RAIN. 

SHINE  out  once  more,  thou  radiant  sun, 
With  noon-day  splendours  bright ! 

Break  through  the  clouds  which  veil  thy  beams  ! 
Diffuse  thy  cheering  light ! 

Creation,  deluged,  weeps  in  showers  ; 

The  dripping  flocks  repine ; 
The  birds  are  silent  on  the  boughs  ; 

Shine  out,  —  all  glorious  shine  ! 

No  more  they  grind ;  —  the  sithe,  the  rake, 

Are  laid  as  useless  by, 
While  many  a  wistful  look  is  turn'd 

Towards  the  western  sky. 

Wake  from  the  north,  ye  slumb'ring  wind  ! 

Dispel  the  thick'ning  gloom  ! 
Lighten  with  smiles  the  brow  of  care, — 

With  all  your  influence  come. 


THE   TWO  LITTLE   BOYS. 

THE  morning  was  fine  — •  such  a  promise  of  spring, 
I  thought  we  might  just  look  around, 

To  see  if  the  red-breast  was  yet  on  the  wing, 
Or  green  blade  had  shot  through  the  ground. 

So  wading  through  mire  and  splashing  through  mud, 

And  climbing  the  fences  so  high, 
Along  by  the  creek,  and  then  up  through  the  wood, 

We  rambled,  —  my  brother  and  I. 

Now  pausing  to  listen,  now  watching  with  care, 
To  see  where  the  squirrel  might  run, — 

We  'spied  through  the  trees  that  a  hunter  was  there, 
Was  there  with  his  dog  and  his  gun. 

Then  weary,  and  dirty,  and  hungry  withal, 
We  hurried  us  homeward,  with  joy,  — 

Expecting,  no  doubt,  that  whatever  might  befall, 
A  breakfast  there  was  for  each  boy. 


TO   A   BUTTERFLY. 

INSCRIBED    TO    MISS    S.   U.   W.   G. 
FOR  THE   BAZAAR* 

WHITHER  bound,  on  pinions  fair,  — • 
Whither  bound,  thou  child  of  air  ? 
Revelling  here  'inong  fruits  and  flowers  : 
Seeking  there  the  shady  bowers ; 
Sipping  from  the  crystal  stream  ; 
Sporting  in  the  sunny  beam  : 
What  a  share  of  bliss  is  thine  — 
Just  to  eat,  and  drink,  and  shine  ! 
This  thy  task  from  sun  to  sun,  — 
Not  a  duty  left  undone ; 
Not  a  care  distracts  thy  breast; 
Not  a  fear  disturbs  thy  rest : 
Fancy  ne'er  portrays  the  storm 
Bursting  o'er  thy  fragile  form  : 
Busy  trifler !  wing  thy  way,  — 
Thoughtless,  innocent,  and  gay, 


THE     BUTTERFLY,  145 

When  thy  little  race  is  run, 
All  thy  round  of  pleasure  done,  — 
From  the  cup,  so  gayly  quafPd, 
Having  drain'd  the  latest  draught, 
What  shall  then  remain  to  thee, 
But  expiring  —  not  to  be  ? 

Other  claims  and  duties  mine, 
Than  to  eat,  and  drink,  and  shine : 
Here  along  our  pathway  lies 
Self-denial  —  sacrifice  :  — 
Oft  the  silent  tear  must  flow, 
For  our  own  or  others'  wo ;  — 
All  our  joys  and  sorrows  past, 
Death  asserts  his  power  at  last: 
Yet  shall  man,  when  time  is  o'er, 
Live  again,  to  die  no  more- 


13 


THOUGHTS, 

ON    RECEIVING    A   BLANK    BOOK. 

NEW,  blank,  and  all  so  neatly  bound, 

There's  inspiration  in  the  sound ; 

Sure  none  might  see,  but  fain  would  write,— 

Would  mar  the  pure,  unsullied  white, 

And  clothe  the  pages,  in  their  turn, 

4  With  thoughts  that  breathe  and  words  that  burn  ' 

Here  rescue  from  destruction's  power 

Some  withering  leaf —  some  fading  flower  — 

Or  sketch  the  rainbow's  passing  dyes, 

Ere  swift  they  vanish  from  the  skies, — 

Or  call  from  memory's  lonely  waste 

Some  fleeting  vision  of  the  past, 

As,  uncontroll'd,  the  Muse  again 

Shall  roam  through  fancy's  wide  domain. 

Is  there  a  heart  by  grief  oppress'd, 
An  anxious,  care-worn,  aching  breast, — 
A  load  by  day,  no  tongue  can  tell, 
By  night  a  sleepless  sentinel?  — 


TO    THE    EVENING    STAR.  147 

There  may  she  speed,  and  with  her  bring 
A  balmy  healing  in  her  wing,  — 
A  light  the  darkness  to  illume,  — 
A  ray  to  penetrate  the  gloorn ; 
Where  misery's  cup  is  still  the  share, 
Infuse  one  drop  of  comfort  there. 

Would  ills  long  past  afflict  the  soul  ? 
There  bid  oblivion's  surges  roll  — 
While  looks  and  words,  in  kindness  given, 
Are  treasur'd  with  our  hopes  of  heaven. 
Be  this  her  aim,  her  object  still, 
To  cherish  virtue  —  banish  ill  — 
To  prove,  what  endless  years  shall  prove  — 
'Tis  man  who  errs,  —  that  God  is  love. 


TO   THE   EVENING  STAR. 

MILDLY  thy  beams  on  the  hill-top  are  streaming, 
And  mildly  thy  glance  on  the  rivulet  plays ; 
How  grateful  the  swain,  when  his  labours  have  ended, 
And  homeward  returning,  to  welcome  thy  rays ! 


148  THE    WRECK. 

And  ho  that's  immur'd  in  the  crowds  of  the  city, 
A  stranger,  —  all  passing  him  heedlessly  by,  — 
Is  cheer'd,  as  the  hues  of  the  twilight  are  fading, 
To  see  the  lone  trembler  look  down  from  on  high. 

Joy  of  the  tempest-toss'd  I  wide  o'er  the  waters, 
The  winds  laid  in  silence,  the  billows  at  rest; 
Hope  whispers  soft,  as,  when  clouds  are  retiring, 
They  hail  the  fair  traveler  again  in  the  west. 

Herald  of  peace  !  to  the  care-worn,  the  weary, 
How  dear  is  thy  light,  at  the  closing  of  day, 
When,  sole  in  thy  realm,  thou  art  shining  in  brightness, 
Unalter'd  by  time,  and  unknown  to  decay  ! 


THE   WRECK. 

11  THE  Home  "  is  on  the  deep, 
Her  crew  are  blithe  and  gay, 

And  swiftly  through  the  foaming  surge 
They  cleave  the  watery  way  : 

Their  hearts  are  light  —  their  spirits  free- 

A  world  of  confidence  and  glee. 


THE     WRECK.  149 

The  ample  deck  —  the  board  — 

Is  throng' d  by  many  a  guest, 
Of  generous  soul,  and  purpose  high, 

As  ever  warm'd  the  breast : 
The  aged  sire,  the  maiden  fair, 
The  soldier  of  the  cross  is  there. 

And  still  they  speed  their  way 

Towards  that  genial  shore, 
Where  winter-winds  and  northern  skies 

Are  felt,  arc  fear'd  no  more  : 
Where  fruits  and  flowers  their  sweets  exhale, 
Caught  by  the  incense-breathing  gale. 

The  storm  is  on  the  deep  ; 

The  seas  are  raging  high  ; 
Now  melts  the  stoutest  heart,  — 

An  hour  of  agony ! 
Around,  beneath,  no  object,  save 
The  yawning  gulf —  the  mountain  wave. 

She  nears  the  fatal  strand  ;  — 
Now  in  the  breakers,  —  hark  ! 

Loud,  louder  still  the  roar, 

As  strikes  the  foundering  bark, 

With  shriek,  and  wail,  and  hollow  moan, 

And  timbers  echoing  groan  for  groan. 
13* 


150  THE     WRECK. 

The  mother  clasps  her  babe,  — 

(Can  death  itself  divide?) 
Now  clings  she  to  the  wreck  — 

Now  meets  the  whelming  tide  ; 
And  then  a  cry  so  frantic  wild 
Rang  in  the  blast  —  '  My  child  !  my  child  I* 

They  wait,  —  they  calmly  wait,  — 
Oh  God  !  that  wedded  pair,* 

With  soul  and  body  offered  up 
To  Him  in  solemn  prayer  : 

Faith  rent  the  clouds,  presenting  higher 

The  chariot  and  the  steeds  of  fire. 

And  hef  was  there,  —  the  one 
To  many  a  heart  so  dear,  — 

With  academic  honours  crown'd, 
Just  entering  life's  career,  — 

Young,  ardent,  pious,  truly  wise, — 
How  mete  an  offering  for  the  skies  ! 

Now  rear  the  column  high, 

With  sculptured  trophies  deck'd  ; 

Tell  how,  among  conflicting  waves, 
The  gallant  bark  was  wrecked,  — 

•  The  Rev.  Mr.  Cowles  arid  lady, 
f  A.  C.  Bangs. 


INVOCATION     TO     SLEEP.  151 

Of  buried  hopes,  and  friends  no  more, 
Who  perish'd  on  that  fatal  shore. 

Oct.  1837. 


INVOCATION  TO  SLEEP. 

COME,  with  thy  downy  wings,  soft  to  my  pillow  ; 

Scatter  (fresh-gather'd)  thy  poppies  around  ; 
Truce  bring  to  care,  —  bring  a  respite  to  sorrow; 

Darken  the  window,  and  hush  every  sound. 

Come  with  thy  chalice  fill'd,  just  from  the  fountain, 
Causing  forgetfulness  still  with  the  sip, — 

Rest  to  the  weary  limbs  —  peace  to  the  troubled  — 
Waters  of  Lethe  to  moisten  the  lip. 

Come  with  thy  signet,  the  eyelids  impressing ; 

Shut  out  the  world,  with  its  toils,  from  the  view  : 
Hopes  all  and  fears  all,  —  its  pains  and  its  pleasures, 

Its  lights  and  its  shadows,  —  adieu!  and  adieu! 

1337. 


THE    MOTHER. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

THE  helpless  babe,  soft  cradled  on  her  breast, 
With  many  a  charm  she  fondly  lulls  to  rest ; 
Suffus'd  in  grief,  as  oft  his  face  appears, 
That  gentle  hand  still  wipes  his  falling  tears, — 
Soothes  every  sorrow,  heightens  every  joy, 
Till  youth,  till  manhood  crowns  the  wayward  boy : 
Nor  here  deserts,  —  for  now,  whate'er  betide, 
The  guardian  angel  lingers  at  his  side  ; 
And  blest  that  lot,  if  virtue  marks  the  way, 
And  fortune  smiles  propitious,  day  by  day,  — 
Life's  current  smooth,  (despite  its  every  wo,) 
The  world  would  seem  a  paradise  below. 


PRIDE, 

WHAT  various  forms  has  pride  assumed  ! 

What  havoc  has  it  made ! 
Since  first  the  serpent's  head  was  rear'd 

In  Eden's  peaceful  shade, 

The  high,  the  low,  the  rich,  the  poor, 

The  beggar,  and  the  king, 
Will  all  agree,  without  dispute, 

That  'tis  the  accursed  thing. 

Yet,  (strange  to  tell !)  though  each  can  see 

This  failing  in  another, 
Still,  self-excusing,  each  exclaims  — 

4  The  fault  is  in  my  brother.' 

Were  common  sense  but  kept  in  view, 
(And  sure  there's  none  will  doubt  it,) 

With  kindly  thought  for  others'  weal, 
The  world  might  do  without  it. 


THE    TWILIGHT   HOUR. 

THE  hues  of  parting  day 

Are  fading  in  the  west, 
And  now  the  twilight  gray 

Invites  the  swain  to  rest : 
A  welcome  pause,  a  moment  given 
To  lift  the  thoughts  from  earth  to  heaven. 

Now  memory  wakes  the  grief — 
The  joys  long,  long  gone  by  ; 

Nor  heeds  the  rustling  leaf — 
The  breeze's  gentle  sigh  : 

Dreams  of  the  past,  that  come  with  power, 

To  haunt  us  at  the  twilight  hour. 

Rise,  grov'ler !  stay  no  more ; 

But  stretch  thy  feeble  wings, 
And  strive  by  faith  to  soar 

Above  terrestrial  things, — 
Where  morn,  and  noon,  and  twilight  gray, 
Are  lost  in  one  eternal  day. 

1837. 


HYMN, 

FOR  THE  SUNDAY  SCHOLARS,  ON  NE^VT-YEAR. 

Teachers  and  Children. 

LORD,  assembled  in  thy  name, 
Let  us  each  thy  promise  claim  ; 
More  than  two  or  three  are  here, 
Spared  to  see  another  year. 

Teachers. 

Welcome,  children  of  our  care,  — 
Welcome  to  the  house  of  prayer  ; 
Lift  your  hearts  with  one  accord  ; 
Lift  your  voices,  —  praise  the  Lord. 

Children. 

How  shall  dust  and  ashes  bring 
Offerings  mete  for  Israel's  King  1 

Teachers. 

Grateful  songs  as  incense  rise,  — 
This  th'  accepted  sacrifice. 


156  HYMN. 

Children. 

Will  He  hear  us  when  we  pray? 
Will  He  teach  us  what  to  say  I 

Teachers. 

Yes,  our  hairs  are  numbered  all ; 
Yes,  He  marks  a  sparrow's  fall- 

Children. 

Since  we  last  united  here, 
Since  we  hail'd  the  vanish'd  year, 
Death  has  thinn'd  our  little  band,  — 
One*  has  sought  the  spirit's  land. 

Teachers. 

Lord,  we  ask  —  be  every  good 
On  our  youthful  charge  bestow'd ; 
Counsel  teach  them  from  on  high, 
How  to  live  and  how  to  die. 

Sung  by  Teachers  and  Scholars. 
*  Alluding  to  the  death  of  one  of  the  Sunday  scholars. 


CHILDREN'S   HYMN, 

FOR    NEW-YEAR FOR    SUNDAY  SCHOLARS. 

ATTUN'D  be  our  voices,  as  jointly  ascending 
To  welcome  our  friends  and  our  teachers  so  dear ; 
While  each  little  heart,  as  with  love  overflowing, 
Would  tender  the  wish  for  a  happy  new  year. 

Your  eyes  are  upon  us,  ye  friends  of  our  childhood, 
Your  bosoms  oft  beating  with  hope  or  with  fear ; 
Though  poor  the  return  for  your  care  and  your  kind- 
ness, 
Permit  us  to  wish  you  a  happy  new  year. 

And  oh,  may  we  never,  no  never  forget  you, 
Nor  grieve  you,  nor  cause  you  a  sigh  or  a  tear, 
While  onward  and  upward  should  still  be  the  motto 
Of  teachers  and  children  through  every  new  year. 

January  1,  1838. 


14 


THOUGHT^, 

ON    READING   A    LATE    PUBLICATION.* 

SHUT,  shut  the  book,  —  such  scenes  of  wo, — 
My  heart  is  pain'd,  my  eyes  overflow, 
As  truth  is  brought  before  the  sight, 
Clad  in  her  robes  of  radiant  light. 

'Twas  thus  of  old  the  trav'ler  lay, 
Robb'd,  wounded,  bleeding  by  the  way  ; 
None  search'd  the  cause,  or  pitying  ey'd  — 
The  priest,  the  Levite,  turn'd  aside  ; 
Hope,  sighing,  fled,  and  left  despair 
To  be  his  sole  companion  there. 

Thou  good  Samaritan  !  'twas  thine 
To  pour  the  gen'rous  oil  and  wine  — 
To  bind  the  wounds*  the  cordial  give, 
In  safety  place,  and  bid  him  live  : 
A  richer  boon  than  mortal  knows,  — 
More  grateful  meed  than  earth  bestows, 

1  The  story  of  Bridget  Phealan,  in  "LIVE  AND  LET  LIVE." 


BIRGE.  159 

Be  thine,  when  heart  and  flesh  shall  fail, 
And  weakness  o'er  thy  strength  prevail  — 
When  praise  an  empty  sound  shall  be, 
And  death  unfolds  eternity. 


DIRGE. 


TO    THE    REV.    S.   R.  M N. 

These  reflections  were  suggested  to  the  writer  on  hearing  of 
the  death  of  a  little  boy,  whose  sister  had  died  some  time  previ- 
ous. It  might  truly  be  said  of  them,  "  They  were  lovely  and 
pleasant  in  their  lives,  and  in  their  deaths  they  were  not  divided." 

"  But  they  are  dead  —  those  two  are  dead  ; 
Their  spirits  are  in  heaven." 

Wordsworth. 


TWIN-BUDS  of  beauty  on  one  stem, 
In  sun  and  shower  ye  grew  ; 

Nor  could  parental  fondness  gaze 
Upon  a  lovelier  view. 

Sarah  !  thy  face  was  form'd  of  smiles  ; 

Thy  pulses  beat  with  glee ; 
Each  look  and  motion  seeming,  still, 

As  tun'd  to  harmony :  — 


160  DIRGE. 

So  like  some  freshly-blooming  rose, 

The  queen  of  other  flowers,  — 

E'en  such  as  once  perfum'd  the  air 

Of  Eden's  blissful  bowers. 

William,  the  sweet  and  sprightly  boy, 
The  child  of  promise  fair,  — 

The  eldest-born,  the  cherish'd  one, 
The  first  their  love  to  share. 

I  knew  those  brightly  beaming  eyes, 
That  smooth  and  placid  brow, 

The  rosy  mouth,  the  dimpled  cheek,  — 
Methinks  I  see  them  now. 

His  voice  was  like  the  joyous  birds 

That  warble  in  the  spring, 
As  flying  still  from  tree  to  tree, 

For  pleasure  on  the  wing. 

And  light  and  buoyant  was  his  step,  — 
The  step  which  childhood  knows  ; 

When  free  from  care,  and  high  in  health, 
The  genial  current  flows. 

I  heard  their  merry  voices  ring, 
As  o'er  the  lawn  they  stray'd  ; 


DIRGE. 

Or  gayly  rear'd  their  mimic  house 
Beneath  the  locust  shade. 

I  saw  them  on  their  bended  knees, 

In  prayer  at  even- tide  ; 
Then  calmly  on  their  little  bed 

They  laid  them  on  it,  side  by  side. 

The  mother's  watchful  eye  was  there, 

To  see  that  all  was  right ; 
The  pillow  smooth,  the  kiss  dispens'd, 

And  said  the  last,  good  night. 

And  when  the  light  of  morn  appear' d 

To  gladden  mount  and  dell, 
A  father's  blessing  on  their  heads 

Like  precious  dew-drops  fell. 

But  storm  and  blight  and  mildew  came, 

And  laid  these  flowerets  low  ; 
And  wherefore  ?  sure  "  we  know  not  now," 

Yet  aftertime  shall  show. 

The  mystic  seal  shall  then  be  broke, 

The  curtain  rent  in  twain  ; 
And  that  which  now  is  unreveal'd, 

Shall  then  be  clear  and  plain. 

1832. 


161 


THE    BROOM. 

GIVE  me  a  broom,  one  neatly  made 

In  Niscayuna's  distant  shade ; 

Or  bearing  full  its  staff  upon 

The  well-known  impress, '  Lebanon/ 

A  handle  slender,  smooth,  and  light, 

Of  bass-wood,  or  of  cedar  white  ; 

Where  softest  palm  from  point  to  heel 

Might  ne'er  a  grain  of  roughness  feel  — 

So  firm  a  fix,  the  stalks  confine  ; 

So  tightly  drawn  the  hempen  line  ; 

Then  fan-like  spread  divided  wove, 

As  fingers  in  a  lady's  glove  — 

To  crown  the  whole,  (and  save  beside,) 

The  loop,  the  buckskin  loop  is  tied. 

With  this  in  hand,  small  need  to  care 

If  C y  or  J n  fill  the  chair  — 

What  in  the  banks  is  said  or  done  — 
The  game  at  Texas  lost  or  won  — 
How  city  belles  collect  their  rings, 
And  hie  to  Saratoga  springs  ;  — 


THE     BROOM.  163 

To  Erie's,  or  Ontario's  shore, 
To  hear  Niagara's  thunders  roar  — 
While  undisturb'd  my  course  I  keep, 
Cheer'd  by  the  sound  of  sweep,  sweep,  sweep. 

See  learned  Doctors  rack  their  brains, 
To  cure  mankind  of  aches  and  pains, 
When  half,  and  more  than  half,  arise 
From  want  of  prudence,  —  exercise. 
The  body  like  a  garment  wears, 
And  aches  and  pains  may  follow  years ; 
But  when  I  see  the  young,  the  gay, 
Untimely  droop,  and  pine  away, 
As  if  the  life  of  life  were  o'er, 
Each  day  less  active  than  before,  — 
Their  courage  fled,  their  interest  cold, — 
With  firmer  grasp,  my  broom  I  hold. 

Nor  is  this  all ;  in  very  deed 
The  broom  may  prove  a  friend  in  need  ; 
On  this  I  lean,  —  on  this  depend  ; 
With  such  a  surety,  such  a  friend, 
There's  not  a  merchant  in  the  place 
Who  would  refuse  me  silk  or  lace  ; 
Or  linen-fine,  or  broad-cloth  dear, 
Or  e'en  a  shawl  of  fam'd  Cashmere, 


164  THE     BROOM. 

Though  prudence  whispering,  still  would  say, 
"  Remember,  there's  a  rainy  day." 

Hand  me  the  broom,  (a  matron  said,) 
As  down  the  hose  and  ball  were  laid ; 
I  think  your  father  soon  will  come  ; 
I  long  to  see  him  safe  at  home. 
Pile  on  the  wood,  and  set  the  chair,  — 
The  supper  and  the  board  prepare  ; 
The  gloom  of  night  is  gathering  fast,  — 
The  storm  is  howling  o'er  the  waste. 

The  hearth  is  swept,  arrang'd  the  room, 
And  duly  hung  the  shaker-broom, 
While  cheerful  smiles  and  greetings  wait 
The  master  entering  at  his  gate. 
Let  patriots,  poets,  twine  their  brows 
With  laurel,  or  with  holly  boughs  ; 
But  let  the  broom-corn  wreath  be  mine, 
Adorn'd  with  many  a  sprig  of  pine  ; 
With  wild-flowers  from  the  forest  deep, 
And  garlands  from  the  craggy  steep, 
Which  ne'e*  have  known  the  gardener's  care, 
But  rise,  and  bloom  spontaneous  there. 


EPITAPH  ON  A   DROWNED  BOY, 

A  NAMELESS  youth  lies  buried  here, 
Who  on  the  sandy  beach  was  thrown ; 

No  mother  wept  beside  his  bier,  — 
No  father  claimed  him  as  his  own. 

Uncover' d  on  the  river's  brink, 
A  stranger-band  around  him  stood, 

As  died  the  solemn  funeral  rites 
In  murmurs  o'er  the  silent  flood. 

Then  hitherward  his  corpse  they  bore, 
And  laid  within  its  narrow  bed, 

At  rest  till  call'd  to  stand  before 

The  righteous  Judge  of  quick  and  dead. 


ON    MISS    JULIANNA  WIGRAM, 

OF     ULSTER     COUNTY. 

How  blest  are  those  who  die,  — 
By  grace  made  meet  for  heaven  ; 

To  them  alone  the  victor's  palm 
Aad  crown  of  life  is  given. 


ON    TWO   LITTLE   SISTERS. 

SLEEP,  little  sisters,  side  by  side, — 
No  chance,  no  change  can  now  divide ; 
Together  in  the  dust  you  lie, 
Together  tread  the  courts  on  high. 
If  once  the  eye  of  faith  could  see 
Your  full,  complete  felicity, 
How  would  our  sad  repinings  cease, 
And  all  our  sighs  be  hush'd  in  peace. 


ON  AN   INFANT, 

THOUGH  sever'd  from  the  little  flock 
A  gracious  God  has  given, 

We  rest  in  sure  and  certain  hope 
To  meet  our  child  in  heaven* 


ON    MRS,    WIGRAM, 

OF    ULSTER    COUNTY* 

ALL  heart  could  wish,  lies  buried  here, 
Of  mother,  wife,  or  friend  sincere  ; 
From  day  to  day,  she  meekly  trod 
In  duty's  path,  and  serv'd  her  God  ;  — 
Serv'd  Him  by  faith,  who  now  is  seen 
Without  a  dimming  veil  between. 


ON   A   CHILD. 

COULD  fondest  love  have  stay'd  thy  flight, 
Or  aught  detain'd  thee  here  below; 

Thou  long  hadst  liv'd  to  bless  our  sight, 
And  cheer  us  in  this  vale  of  wo. 


ON   A  BROTHER   AND    SISTER, 

THRICE  blessed  be  His  Holy  name, 
From  whom  these  precious  favours  came  ; 
And  now,  that  He  resumes  His  own, 
Our  bleeding  hearts  without  a  groan, 
Will  strive  to  say, '  thy  will  be  done.' 


NOTES.  169 


NOTE  A. 

Wild  as  the  Indian  sybil's  droam  of  heaven. 

She  spoke  of  the  anger  of  the  Great  Spirit  against  the  red  men, 
especially  those  of  her  own  nation,  nearly  all  of  whom  had  per- 
ished ;  and  that  herself  and  her  children,  the  remnant  of  her  race, 
would  soon  sleep  in  the  ground,  and  that  there  would  be  none  to 
gather  them  at  the  feast  of  the  dead,  or  to  celebrate  their  obsequies. 
But  her  countenance  soon  kindled  with  animation,  and  her  eyes 
sparkled  with  pleasure,  when  changing  the  mournful  scene,  she 
ended  with  a  most  glowing  description  of  the  beautiful  hunt- 
ing grounds,  the  ever-during  abode  of  the  brave  and  good  red 
men.  These  she  described  as  lying  far,  far  beyond  the  vast 
western  ocean,  and  as  being  ten-fold  larger  than  the  great  con- 
tinent of  America.  There,  she  said,  the  changing  seasons 
brought  no  extremes  of  heat  or  cold,  wet  or  drought;  none  were 
sick,  none  became  old  or  infirm :  and  well  do  I  recollect,  that 
pointing  to  the  large  poplars  near  us,  some  of  which  were  five  or 
six  feet  in  diameter,  and  rose  eighty  feet  without  a  limb ;  she 
spoke  of  the  largest  trees  of  that  country  as  being  twenty  times 
larger,  and  spreading  their  broad  tops  among  the  stars.  Corn, 
and  beans,  and  pumpkins,  and  melons,  she  said,  grew  there 
spontaneously  ;  the  trees  were  loaded  with  the  richest  fruits  ;  the 
ground  was  clothed  with  perpetual  verdure,  and  the  flowers  on 
the  prairies  were  ever  blooming  and  fragrant  j  the  springs  were 
abundant,  clear,  and  cool ;  the  rivers  large,  deep,  and  trans- 
parent, abounding  with  fish  of  endless  varieties ;  the  fine  open 
woods  were  stocked  with  innumerable  herds  of  buffaloes,  deer, 
elk,  and  moose,  and  every  species  of  game  j  in  short,  there  was  a 
paradise  containing  all  that  could  delight  the  mind  or  gratify  the 
senses,  and  to  crown  all,  the  exclusive  home  of  the  Indian. — 
Spencer's  Indian  Captivity,  p.  121. 

15 

t 


170  NOTES, 


NOTE    B. 

Xicotencal,  an  Indian  general,  who  opposed  the  march  of  the 
Spaniards  towards  Mexico.  —  Life  of  Fernando  Coriez,page  53, 
vol.  2j  or  Conquest  of  Mexico. 


NOTE  C. 

His  more  than  brother,  captive  in  their  hand. 

Philip  fled  with  his  surviving  forces  to  a  distant  position,  where 
it  was  impossible  to  follow  him.  The  last  defeat,  in  which  his 
best  fighting  men  were  slain,  had  broken  the  power,  but  not  the 
spirit  of  Philip.  Unable  to  meet  the  colonists  in  the  open  field,  he 
harassed  them  in  a  thousand  ways,  so  that,  as  the  spring  advan- 
ced, the  more  industrious  and  timid  were  thrown  into  the  extrem- 
ity of  despair,  and  said,  "  How  shall  we  wade  through  another 
summer  like  the  last  ?"  But  the  chief  was  now  a  wandering 
exile  ;  his  paternal  dominion  was  taken  ;  the  singular  friendship 
of  Gluanonchet,  "  the  mighty  sachem  of  the  Narraganscts,"  was 
his  last  support.  The  fidelity  of  this  man  was  tried  to  the  utter- 
most :  he  had  received  the  fugitive  with  open  arms  j  rallied  all 
his  forces  around  him  :  they  fought,  side  by  side,  with  the  heroism 
of  men  on  the  last  strand  of  their  country :  were  defeated,  and 
fled  together,  without  a  reproach  or  complaint  on  either  side : 
Gluanonchet,  venturing  out  with  a  few  followers  near  the  enemy, 
was  pursued  and  taken.  His  behaviour  under  his  misfortunes 
was  very  noble  and  affecting :  for  when  repeated  offers  were 
made  him  of  life,  if  he  would  deliver  up  Philip,  and  submit  his 
own  people  to  the  English,  he  proudly  rejected  them.  They  con- 
demned him  to  die,  and,  by  a  refinement  of  cruelty,  by  the  hands 
of  three  young  Indian  chiefs.  The  heroic  man  said  "  that  he 
liked  it  well,  for  hfi  should  die  before  his  heart  was  soft,  or  he  had 
spoken  any  thing  unworthy  of  himself." 

[Extracts  from  Carne?s  Life  of  Eliot. 

t 


ERRATA. 

Page  20,  in  5th  line  from  bottom,  for  lessons,  read  lesson. 

Page  26,  in  3d  and  4th  lines  from  bottom,  for  adds  Sydney  "fa 
another  place,  read  adds  Sydney  in  another  place,  "our  Sav.  <§•«. 

Page  29,  in  7th  line  from  top,  for  into,  read  in;  and  in  last  line^ 
for  had,  read  has. 

Page  31,  in  12th  line  from  bottom,  for  never,  read  would. 

Page  40,  in  1st  line  at  the  top,  for  joy,  read  jog;  and  in  8th  line 
from  bottom,  for  paley,  read  paly. 

Page  50,  in  llth  line  from  top,  for  such,  read  *o. 

Page  60,  in  two  last  lines,  for  confess,  read  confessed;  and  for 
own,  read  oa<w'd 

Page  67,  in  9th  line,  for  thus  (the  reverend  sire,)  read  (thu*  th* 
reverend  sire.) 

Page  73,  in  the  inscription  to  the  Album,  for  JtftM  Y.  L.  Jtf— -  Al 
read  Mits  J.  L.  M -h. 

Page  89,  in  7th  line  from  bottom,  forfix'd,  read  fir'd. 

Page  120,  in  note  at  bottom,  for  Mr.  L V,  read  Jlfr.  7*—— -nY. 

Page  161,  in  6th  line,  dele  on  it. 


- 


BB 


JM18901G 


'.    : 

Wai 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


